Mindful of the Feelings of Others
by darkershade
Summary: Colonel Brandon is torn between his anguish at the loss of his foster daughter and his burgeoning attraction towards the talented, aloof Marianne Dashwood. One morning at Barton Park, a letter comes that forces him to choose between feeling and principle, setting off a chain of events that will bring his relationship to both women to a turning point. Complete! Sequels coming!
1. Ship to Wreck

"Colonel Brandon...was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others." ( _Sense and Sensibility_ , Chapter 12)

Colonel Brandon opened the window sash and marvelled at the fine weather, and couldn't help but smile to himself. He knew it would be a failed day, that his true wish would not really come true-that the beautiful view of the Whitwell property, the careful attention he paid to the planning of the picnic, and his own company, together, would yet prove inadequate to tempt Marianne Dashwood away from the gaze of John Willoughby long enough to see that that his attentions, though constant and excessive, were not genuine. Brandon had been around enough young men (and had been young enough himself, once) to recognize the signs of superficial attachment; Willoughby wanted Marianne, that was obvious, but he didn't want her for very long. He would stop wanting her the moment he had claimed her. Brandon might not have youth, he might not have charm, but he had the advantage of patience, and a willingness to play the long game. He also had the advantage of seeing other virtues in her besides beauty and vigor, which alter with time and maturity. Nevertheless, he knew that Marianne's own youth and inexperience made it difficult for her to understand these things.

Despair of her love he might, but still-it was a beautiful day, and he would spend it all in her presence. That would have to be enough to satisfy him for today.

As he washed himself with cold water at the basin, he looked down at his chest at the great scar, so close to his heart, from a mostly superficial wound he had sustained in India almost fifteen years ago. How often in the past had he wished the assailant's aim had been better, as his own heartbreaks had been so much more painful for him to bear than the mere physical attack he had endured then. First his rift from Eliza-a youthful passion, to be sure, no less dramatic and fanciful than the one engaged in by Willoughby and Marianne, but much more noble, on his part, for he had intended to marry her and keep her for his wife for all time. Losing her to his brother had been nothing compared with losing her to the evils of inconstancy and divorce, and finally consumption-and worse, he knew that had he been in England and not in India, he could perhaps have had some hand in aiding her.

Then, more recently, his absolute devastation at losing Eliza's daughter, the young woman whom he loved as if she were his own daughter. Young Eliza's disappearance had almost driven him to the point of taking his own life, truth be told. When he had searched and searched to no avail, he had spent many nights alone in such close collaboration with a bottle of scotch that he didn't remember his own actions the next morning, once finding himself curled up on the rug in his library, the unloaded pistol clutched in his hand evidence that he had probably thought to end his suffering in his drunken stupor. When he had first been invited to Barton to make up a member of Sir John's party, it was as a friendly act of service on that loyal man's part. His old friend had written him, "Please come and join us and our lovely new neighbors here at Barton-it would do you good to have some distraction from your present state, and I should very much like to go shooting, as the pheasants seem to have multiplied beyond my capacity to handle them." It was a brotherly way of saying that he was worried, and Brandon obliged him, knowing, in the end, that his own ruination or death would bring John down low.

From the moment he entered the parlor where Marianne Dashwood played the pianoforte so beautifully, however, he was forced to reflect upon the ease with which man's problems can multiply, and his interests can diversify. Please note, reader, it was not Marianne's beauty which first enthralled him. It was also not love at first sight, he knew, because there is no such thing. But first impressions mean a great deal, and for Christopher Brandon it was the impression of the way Marianne's hands moved across the keys, of the subtlety with which she achieved the correct dynamics of the piece which she was playing, and of the expression on her face while she played-as if she were aware, somehow, of another world in which verbal language and convention did not matter, and only the melody and harmony existed. Had Marianne been a man, she would have been lauded as one of the great players of her time-but as it stood, she had probably learned to play so that she could become a finished young lady, taught by people who had never appreciated the finer points of playing, only the accuracy of the notes. As soon as he saw her bite her bottom lip as she navigated her way through the challenging coda, he knew that regardless of his anguish at losing his adopted daughter, he would be a man torn in two, hopeless in his search for Eliza, and equally hopeless to resist the bewitching power of Miss Marianne's hands, eyes, and voice.

But alas, the brash and novel charm of Willoughby had seized Marianne's heart and held it hostage. Another bullet to the heart, deep but sustainable. If there was a man anywhere in England who could withstand the pain of loss, it was Brandon. He only wished that the younger man-who showed very little interest in music, but who at least shared Marianne's enjoyment of some of the more modern poets-would be able to appreciate the treasure he possessed.

Dressing in a fresh shirt and breeches, he tied his cravat in his usual way and donned his flannel waistcoat and greatcoat, then headed out, more of a spring in his step than he had experienced since before Eliza's disappearance. He made his way down to Sir John's study, rapping his knuckles in their old signal before receiving an invitation to enter. His friend was sitting at his desk, attending to business in the remaining time before the party was to assemble in the dining room for breakfast.

"Well, well, Brandon, you look better than I've seen you this whole visit," noted the fellow soldier. "I take it your young favorite Miss Marianne will be joining us on our excursion to Whitwell?"

Brandon reddened. "You have to stop that, John. Each time you make a provocative comment on that note, Marianne Dashwood looks as if she will be ill."

"Nonsense-you unmarried people need help sometimes. She will get her head on straight and see you for the excellent choice you are one day soon, I'm sure, and help you get that bad business out of your head, at last."

Brandon just shook his head. John Middleton had four children, but hadn't had much of a hand in raising them-his wife and their tutors spending a great deal of time making sure that their every need was met- and he didn't think that John had any concept of the grief and horror that constantly lurked in Brandon's heart at the thought of what could have befallen his foster daughter. She was a child, and she was lost somewhere in pain and disgrace, and he was powerless to go to her. And yet, he couldn't deny the palliative effect Miss Marianne's presence might have on him, if she would only look his way with anything other than indifference.

The two men sat in amiable silence for a while, the Colonel glancing at one of Sir John's broadsheets, the peer of the realm giving a cursory glance to some documents concerning his property's entailment. Finally, John suggested that they walk down to breakfast, and they emerged from the study and into the convivial atmosphere of the dining room.

Immediately Brandon's eyes alighted on Marianne. She was wearing a green frock, the same one she had been wearing when she first appeared in his sight, the neckline newly embellished with smocking. A fine yellow bonnet and gloves completed the ensemble. Her curls established themselves strikingly in their positions as framers of her lovely heart-shaped face, and it was possible, with the bright colours and contrasts of her attire, not to focus entirely on the aspects of her body that had of late been haunting his few happy dreams-the gentle curves of her bosom emergent from the neckline of her gown, the light in her eyes that glimmered when anyone said anything witty, and the full bottom lip that seemed perfectly soft and kissable. Not that any of this would matter for Brandon. All of these things-the smiling lips and eyes, as well as the curvature of her anatomy, were pointedly aimed at her nearest companion-the cad dressed in full-on dandy style, who didn't even make an attempt to hide the way he was staring at the very parts of her that Brandon tried so hard to be gentlemanly about.

In her good humour, she actually looked up at him as he and Sir John entered the room. "Good morning, Sir John, Colonel Brandon. You both look well."

"Ha!" Sir John barked. "I'm feeling as old as Methuselah, but this young rosebud of a girl says I look well. Brandon is looking remarkably fine this morning, though."

Brandon studiously attempted to appear as if he could not hear Sir John's banter, and instead listened very hard to a conversation between Elinor and her mother, who were standing nearby.

It was between the two of them that he was seated at breakfast, and it was predominantly with Elinor that he conversed as they dined. Elinor was a true kindred spirit, he had come to realize early on in their acquaintance. She was nearer him in age than her sister, unattached, and sensible in many ways- all facts that, he had tried to convince himself, would make her an excellent wife in Marianne's stead. But he was so well-attuned to the feelings of others that he knew instinctively she did not find him attractive, and he would never consent to marrying one woman when he clearly felt more strongly for her sister. His own past experience with the elder Eliza had taught him of the cruelty and danger of this path. At any rate, it was wonderful to have her alliance, and he knew he would always cherish it, platonic though it was on both sides.

"You are well, I take it, Colonel?" she began as toast and jam were passed around.

"Quite. I believe all the preparations for today's excursion are in completion. Your mother is still feeling poorly?"

"I'm sure she will rally. I think she prefers smaller parties, anyway, on the whole."

"I understand her position. I do like large parties when all members are so agreeable, and personal friends to me-" here, he glanced (he hoped imperceptibly) at Willoughby, not at all either agreeable or a friend, to be truthful, but what could he do? "But as a rule, I prefer quality to quantity, with regard to group activities."

"As do I."

"Your sister seems to enjoy large parties, however, so that is something." Here he almost kicked himself, for he knew he brought up Marianne-little questions about her, little observations about her character or her habits-so often that Elinor could be in no doubt of his budding affection for her.

"I think you would find," Elinor replied, "that Marianne's character is more closely aligned with your own than either of you would believe, had you more time and opportunity to make such observations. She too, for instance, prefers the honesty and openness of genuine friendship to the flash and pomp of large social interactions. She abhors style without substance, she tells me again and again." This time, both of their gazes fell on Willoughby, the pinnacle of substanceless style, and the Colonel wondered if Elinor's words were meant to give him hope. Instead, he only felt saddened that Miss Marianne was so deceived in her choice of love, and desirous that the outcome of their affection would not end in her heartbreak.

At once, the private conversation between Marianne and Willoughby erupted into loud laughter, and Brandon saw Marianne's head thrown back in a hearty laugh. Willoughby sheepishly laughed as well, looking around him to see that the rest of the party was alarmed by the result of their inside joke becoming a public affair. Brandon's eyes were on Marianne, the unguarded happiness she displayed in her mirth, the grip of her hands on the table's edge as she lost herself to emotion, the way the tiny white points of her teeth emerged from behind her perfect lips in honest joy, and the ruddiness that the vigor of her laughter brought to her cheeks. He knew that, with all the unresolved misery in his own life, he would never be able to bring forth such a beautiful sound from this woman, whose appetite for entertainment had lately been shaped by such a natural-born wit as Willoughby. She was lost to him-and he had to concede the victory to his rival. Meeting the man's gaze across the table, he smiled and nodded his head. Inwardly, his heart thudded in acknowledgment of defeat.

As Marianne began to explain Willoughby's joke to the perplexed crowd, the footman entered with the morning's letters. Sir John immediately looked up at the Colonel, as the top letter in the stack was addressed to him. Silently passing it across the table, Sir John's characteristic joviality dimmed a bit as he watched his friend's face.

Brandon felt himself become faint with dread as he beheld the name and London address, and wasted no time or pleasantries in excusing himself from the table, half a helping of kipper unfinished on his plate, as he swiftly retired to the privacy of John's study to rip the envelope open and read the letter in full.

"Dear Colonel Brandon" (for so Eliza respectfully addressed him despite their familiarity as nearly father and daughter),

"I have heard that you have been searching for me for some time. Please ease your mind. I thought you would be angry with me, so I didn't write, but I was stupid, because I did not think you would be worried about my safety. I am as safe as can be at present-but I think I need your help. Please find me at - Street at the house of Mrs. Penelope Glasswell, as soon as possible. I have made a grave mistake, but I must ask for your forgiveness and help, because I do not believe I have anyone else.

Yours faithfully,

Eliza

His first thought upon seeing that she was alive and capable of writing was one of complete relief. As he read further, however, he understood that something was very wrong, something she couldn't put in a letter, or at least couldn't articulate gracefully in her youthful manner of writing. He knew without doubt what had befallen her. His head swam with visions of his helpless girl seduced and made pregnant-his girl of sixteen! And he, who had known the agonies her mother had experienced when in the same situation, had allowed it to happen-had sent her to Bath to be with such a careless family as to allow a girl of sixteen to find herself in such a position! He found himself leaning against the nearest bookshelf and sliding to the floor, his breathing quickening to a panicked fervor, his eyes blinking wildly in horror, guilt, and rage. "Oh, God, no," he softly repeated to himself, his face in his hands as he breathed faster, heart beating painfully.

He was suddenly back in India, backed against the outside wall of a beautifully-decorated mosque, his hands pressing into the fresh bullet wound on his chest. At twenty, he was not brave or strong, just angry and frightened, and he screamed himself hoarse when the shock of the wound wore off enough for him to realize what had happened to him. The skirmish between the native officials, who had taken refuge in the mosque, and the gang of angry locals, who were frustrated by a policy that the officials were enacting, had necessitated the involvement of Brandon's regiment, and he-fresh from England and still sick to his stomach daily from the change in climate and diet-was just rash enough to push his way to the front lines and attempt to defray the mob's hostility by brandishing his new musket. He was rewarded with the crack of a gunshot and a searing pain, almost right away, and fell back. It had been Sir John, another new recruit to the Company, who had seen him, recognized his injury for a mere flesh wound, and said, "Get up, damn you, and do something about it, or die already." That had been the first day Brandon had killed a man, the very one who had pierced his skin with a bullet. It had been self-defence, and it had been, he had told himself again and again, in service to the people of the village for whom he was sent to establish order-not that he didn't still feel pangs of remorse for the lives he hadn't been able to spare there. But the lesson Sir John had taught him about the options life leaves you when you are down-that lesson was just as useful today as it had been fifteen years ago.

He picked himself off the floor. He walked over to Sir John's small bar and helped himself to a rather large snifter of brandy, which he downed in almost a single gulp to calm his breathing. And he walked out of the study and back towards the dining room, speaking to the footman on his way to make immediate preparations for his departure, determined to either do something about the fresh wound to his heart, or die trying.

"No bad news, Colonel, I hope," Mrs. Jennings pried when he re-entered the dining room, seeing, no doubt, a telling look on his face.

"None at all, ma'am, I thank you."

"Was it from Avignon? I hope it is not to say that your sister is worse." This a reference to his sister living abroad, whose last childbirth had left her the worse for wear, but who seemed lately to be on the mend.

"No, ma'am. It came from town, and is merely a letter of business."

"But how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business? Come, come, this won't do, Colonel; so let us hear the truth of it."

"My dear madam," said Lady Middleton, "recollect what you are saying." Praise Lady Middleton, who was as sensible as her mother was histrionic.

"Perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin Fanny is married?" This pleasant conversation made Brandon begin to see red again, and he intentionally calmed his breath.

"No, indeed, it is not."

"Well, then, I know who it is from, Colonel. And I hope she is well."

"Whom do you mean, ma'am?" he asked her, hoping his voice didn't betray his rage.

"Oh! you know who I mean."

"I am particularly sorry, ma'am, that I should receive this letter to-day, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town." He felt it prudent to ignore Mrs. Jennings completely upon her last comments, and spoke directly to her daughter.

"In town!" Mrs. Jennings exclaimed. "What can you have to do in town at this time of year?"

"My own loss is great in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but I am the more concerned, as I fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at Whitwell."

"But if you write a note to the housekeeper, Mr. Brandon, will it not be sufficient?" He looked at Marianne as she asked this, seeing the hope dashed in her eyes at being denied the opportunity to go on his planned outing, and he thought to himself in amazement how capable the human consciousness is of sustaining and perceiving new, fresh forms of torture, a hot, searing knife slicing through the still-raw wreck that was his pain-drenched soul when he beheld Marianne's disappointment at his hands. He shook his head.

"We must go," said Sir John. "It shall not be put off when we are so near it. You cannot go to town till to-morrow, Brandon, that is all."

"I wish it could be so easily settled. But it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!"

"If you would but let us know what your business is," said Mrs. Jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."

"You would not be six hours later," said Willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return." He said this in a snide tone, though it was so subtle that Brandon suspected he was the only one at table who noticed it.

"I cannot afford to lose _one_ hour," he pointedly replied, willing Willoughby to just-just fuck off, already. He then saw Willoughby smile secretly and whisper something to Marianne, saw the two of them glance in his direction and share a soft but mocking laugh. To hell with both of them.

"There is no persuading you to change your mind, Brandon, I know of old," said Sir John, "when once you are determined on anything. But, however, I hope you will think better of it. Consider, here are the two Miss Careys come over from Newton, the three Miss Dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and Mr. Willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to Whitwell."

Colonel Brandon looked beseechingly at John, willing his friend to understand-this was from Eliza. This was not something he wanted to argue about in public. And this was something that, as a friend, he ought not to take lightly.

Sir John's eyes revealed no understanding. "Well then, when will you come back again?" His lady wife murmured something about the inconvenience of delaying the trip to Whitewell and the hope that he would return soon.

"You are very obliging. But it is so uncertain, when I may have it in my power to return, that I dare not engage for it at all."

"Oh! he must and shall come back," cried Sir John. "If he is not here by the end of the week, I shall go after him."

"Aye, so do, Sir John," cried Mrs. Jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is."

"I do not want to pry into other men's concerns. I suppose it is something he is ashamed of."

The footman came in to say that the Colonel's horse was ready, and Brandon made to leave at once.

"You do not go to town on horseback, do you?" Sir John asked.

"No - Only to Honiton. I shall then go post."

"Well, as you are resolved to go, I wish you a good journey. But you had better change your mind."

"I assure you it is not in my power." Once again, he gave John a pleading look, begging him not to push the issue. Then he made to go, but turned around once more to address the only friend in the room who had not either pried or mocked, Elinor.

"Is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, Miss Dashwood?"

"I am afraid, none at all."

"Then I must bid you farewell for a longer time than I should wish to do." He shook her hand and noted her solicitous look, regretting that he could not make her a confidant, as he felt certain that she would understand. Then he looked at his cold-hearted beloved-he thought with a jolt how he should by rights hate her for her treatment of him, but knew with equal strength how incapable he was of feeling animosity towards someone so darling, so tender-hearted, so impetuous. Heart as heavy as any man's had ever been, he bowed in her direction, not meeting her eyes. Then he strode out of the room, Sir John suddenly on his heels, while Mrs. Jennings shouted out one last attempt at prying open the secret of his heart. As soon as they were outside of earshot of Mrs. Jennings and company, Sir John began: "God, Brandon, I'm sorry-I don't mean to pry, but the assembled party-"

Brandon wheeled around and thrust a finger in Sir John's face. "I don't give a fuck about the assembled party, John. I have a letter from Eliza. You know as well as I do how important it is that I go to her immediately."

"Eliza!" John expressed shock. "She has written to you herself?"

"Yes," Brandon retorted, ire and terror playing out equally on his features. "And she is in a bad way. I cannot delay a moment."

"God!" John exclaimed. "Is she-"

"I can only imagine that she must be, or she would not have removed herself to the anonymity of a boarding house, where she waits for me. She's so frightened, John." Brandon felt a sob welling up in his chest. "I thank God I wasn't born a woman, for all the agony they endure at our hands. Each of us has a part to play in some woman's misfortune, and she can do nothing but sit and wait for her personal torture to play out."

"But surely, she herself must have been complicit in her… situation! You said yourself that the parents of her friend in Bath allowed the girls to run around the city like wanton harpies! She is to blame as well as he, whoever he is!"

"She's sixteen, you goddamned idiot!" Brandon roared, his hands on the reins, his foot in the stirrup, and he hefted himself up onto the back of Othello, his best stallion. "She's not old enough to make such a decision! Any grown man who sees a sixteen-year-old girl as a target for his advances is...is…"

"Much worse than a man who sees a seventeen-year-old as a 'target for his advances,'" John snapped. Colonel Brandon stopped cold.

"Do you dare insinuate that what has passed, or not passed, between myself and Marianne Dashwood is anything close to this? My intentions to her-"

"My point is that what you are doing is not worth getting yourself killed over. I know what you have planned. You intend to track this wastrel down and fight him. You aren't young anymore. Neither of us are. You have Eliza back. If you die, over a quarrel with a man who likely hasn't overstepped any laws, what will Eliza do then? Who will care for her?"

Brandon hung his head at the logic of his friend's words, and the injustice of the situation John brought to light, but his passion still burned in him. "I have to try to avenge her, John. She was mine to protect. She is. She is mine to protect, and I intend to prove to her, and to her seducer, that…" he trailed off.

"Say no more. We served together. I above all people should be able to understand." Sir John lowered his gaze as he spoke these words softly. "Please, if you need to call upon me…"

"You would serve as my second? If I can track him down and he agrees to a duel?"

"Much as it pains me to allow it… you have had my back these many years. I would be remiss as a friend if I failed to have yours when you need it most."

"Then I will write to you as soon as I know something."

"Fine. Fine." A pause. "You'd best go before Mrs. Jennings sees you still here."

"Yes, thank you. And John?"

"Yes, Chris?"

"Please look out for her. For all of them."

"But for her especially?"

Brandon didn't need to answer. Their meaning was unspoken but clear to both as Brandon rode away, towards Honiton. The "them" to whom he referred was the Dashwoods in general, and the specific "her" was the woman currently engaged in planning a secret illicit rendezvous with Willoughby to Allenham.

Note to readers: If you want a little music here to put you in my frame of mind for this chapter, try "Ship to Wreck," by Florence and the Machine.


	2. Water Me

The Colonel had a long ride on horseback to Honiton, followed by a bumpy, uncomfortable journey in a post chaise from Honiton to London. He was beside himself all the while, unable to sleep as he usually could when he rode in a carriage, only able to torture himself with the thought of how he would find Eliza when he reached town. By the time he arrived there, located Mrs. Glasswell's lodging house, and mounted the stairs, he was exhausted: it was nearly nine o'clock at night.

He inquired of the landlady the location of Miss Williams' chambers, and hesitantly made his way there. The hairs on the back of his neck raised in trepidation of what state Eliza might be in when he finally saw her. Before any time seemed to have passed, he was knocking on her door.

"Come in," a faint, familiar voice called, and he did.

He took in the sight of her. She seemed, for the most part, unchanged at first. Like her mother, she had fair straight hair, like spun gold, which she wore in a simple knot. She was thin of arm and face, as she had always been-thinner than the elder Eliza, and taller, too, her delicate arms long and too gangly yet to be graceful. In many regards-her mouth and chin, the set of her forehead, and her diffident manner-she was quite different from the woman he had loved in his youth. Her eyes were exactly like her mother's, however, and the pain he saw there when he entered the room was a pain he had seen too frequently in his life-it stopped his heart for a beat.

He understood his assumptions to be correct when she stood up from where she sat at her writing desk, observing that her frail form had changed to accommodate a greatly-swollen belly. "Oh, Eliza-" he crossed the room to her, taking her gently in his arms at once. She began to weep immediately, and he found himself joining her.

"Colonel Brandon, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," she wailed, muffled as her voice was against his now-damp waistcoat.

"Eliza, my poor dear girl-" he was overcome with emotion and could not speak for several moments.

"Can you ever forgive me?" her young voice implored him when she had taken a moment to catch her breath.

Brandon held her at arm's length, his expression grave. "You have done nothing for me to forgive. You have been used ill. It is I who failed to protect you, and who must beg your forgiveness."

Eliza hung her head in shame. "No, Colonel. You misunderstand the situation. My current...predicament...I was indiscreet. I encouraged his advances. I am to blame."

"Who? Whose advances did you encourage, Eliza?"

"Oh, I...I cannot tell you." She looked away.

Brandon felt himself grow angry, though he would never show it. "You cannot name your seducer? You cannot name the man who willfully left you alone in your situation?" These words he spoke gently, but in a strained tone.

"No, for you see-I-I don't want you to hurt him." Her tears were renewed in this admission, and she began once more to sob into his chest.

"Good God, Eliza. I-" he felt trapped. He wanted to shake her, force her to confess the name of her lover, and ride off into the night to search him out and destroy him for his crimes. But he saw that even the thought of so doing made his foster daughter feel the kind of distress that she should not feel, for the good of her own health or that of the child growing within her. A man of action though he was, Brandon was feeling more and more like a victim of circumstance with each passing devastation in his life-unable to take the path that would best lead him to satisfaction, and unable to do anything to change matters.

"Eliza, I would not force you to tell me. I am… I am just relieved to see that you are safe. You will never know how much I suffered, thinking I should never see you again. How I despaired of ever seeing you again. Thank God you were not harmed worse." He said this, reflecting afterwards that she had been harmed about as much as a young woman of already-questionable parentage and reputation could be harmed. He regretted his relief, thinking once again how glad he was he had not been born a woman. What a pitiable, and unavoidable, loss of face women experienced in these situations, when the culprit who put her there would walk free-no one the wiser. He resisted the urge to strike the desk with his fist, and instead took a deep breath. "We must remove you from this place. I can place you in our Greenwich house for a while, and you can enjoy your confinement in more privacy than this house could ever afford you. Would you consent to going with me?" He had left the chaise outside, instructing the driver he would be handsomely paid for waiting until Brandon emerged with the young lady in question.

"Will you… will you stay with me a while?" She looked at him hopefully.

He gave her a fortifying smile. "But of course." In truth, she had no one else. She must feel so terribly alone. Nothing in this world could stop him from giving his charge comfort if it was in his power to do so. It would be the first time since her youth that they had stayed under the same roof, and there was no blood common to the both of them, yet he still thought of her, as he thought of John Middleton, as family in a way that his own blood-kin could never match.

He saw that her few belongings which she had brought with her to London were neatly arranged throughout her room, and it was a matter of ten minutes at most to help her pack up her trunks. The last item he found in the wardrobe, buried in a large-ish box which seemed to contain personal letters and documents, was a velveteen toy, much loved and worn, in the shape of a tiger. "Raja," she exclaimed, taking the tiger from him with too much childlike glee for a woman about to become a mother herself.

"You still have him with you, I see?"

"I have never been able to go anywhere without him. He brings me comfort."

His heart constricted with an ache at the memory of having purchased the toy for his young ward as he wandered through a market stall in London when Eliza was but a toddler, and newly arrived in his care. Back then she had barely been able to stop crying long enough to eat, her tears coming so naturally to her at missing her dead mother that she often wracked her tiny body to sleep each night, relaxing rather through the exertion of her sobs than through any kind of childish peace. While he looked for a suitable place for her to stay, himself being a poor choice due to his relative poverty and his lack of a permanent establishment, the poor child was stuck in the lodgings where he had kept her mother in her last days-full of memories of love, but lacking in the real substance of that emotion. No child should have to experience the agony of being left alone and unloved by any true friends. Colonel Brandon-then just barely more than a boy himself, at four-and-twenty-endeavored thusly to become her true friend, and began an earnest attempt at finding ways of coaxing smiles from her troubled countenance. Raja was his first successful attempt, the toy she clung to at night that helped her finally achieve respite from grief. He had told her stories of Raja's imagined exploits in India, adventures in stalking his prey, hiding from vicious fur trappers, and sitting around the veranda for very important tiger tea parties with his friends (comprised of other toys he bought for her, Dolly and Bunny being chief among them). At Christmas one year he had purchased sumptuous fabrics for her to play at sewing Raja a few pairs of breeches, for she had informed him that tigers, so used to the warm climate of India, must be cold in the snowy British land in which Raja now resided.

Doting on her stuffed toy for a few moments, she placed him in the trunk with her few other belongings, and he made to close it, but she intercepted him and reached-he thought rather surreptitiously-into the wardrobe to retrieve the papers from the box, tied together with brown twine. She placed them next to Raja and then pushed the lid down herself, moving to lock it into place.

The two of them finally exited the lodging house, Brandon paying Mrs. Glasswell the remainder of Eliza's board for the week so as to close out her account. They entered the coach and made for his property in the outskirts of Greenwich.

(Now, dutiful reader, go listen to "Water Me," by FKA Twigs.)


	3. Gun

Chapter 3

The Colonel and Eliza had settled in at Anders Grove, the small park in Greenwich which he had inherited along with Delaford through his brother's entailment. The property had little been used in the ensuing years, Brandon vastly preferring the relative peace of Delaford-and the nearness of John, his particular friend. But given the presence of so many prying eyes in Devonshire at the moment, he felt that, though Greenwich was closer to civilization, it was also more suitable for Eliza's lying in.

In the privacy of the coach, he had ascertained that Eliza expected to be delivered of her child within a fortnight or three weeks. The Colonel had really arrived just in time. He assured her that preparations for her, and the child's, comfort would be made as soon as he could inform his discreet serving staff of the peculiarities of the situation. For now, he and Eliza would simply take up lodging there and wait on the inevitable addition to their party.

Brandon had managed to send a swift line to his serving staff at Anders while waiting on the post chaise in Honiton, not expecting that there would be much of a welcome when they arrived but hoping that at least a fire would be laid out in the guest quarters and that there would be a cold supper prepared, neither of them having eaten in quite some time. It was therefore with great surprise that he found the house well-lit and festively adorned, Mr. and Mrs. Bhatt (his imported butler and housekeeper whom he had befriended in Delhi and then kept on retainer at the Greenwich property as a thank-you for services rendered during his deployment) standing outside with great big grins when seeing the pair of them emerge from the carriage.

"Colonel Brandon, Miss Williams!" Mrs. Bhatt exclaimed in lightly-accented English, looking askance immediately upon seeing the state in which Eliza had arrived. "Come in at once from the cold."

They did so, and found several other servants bustling about, taking their bags and trunks, lighting candles, and showing them to their respective quarters. Mr. Bhatt said, "We are so very glad to see you, Colonel Brandon. My wife has taken the liberty of ordering up a few of your favorite dishes. I hope Miss Eliza Williams will like them too. I am sure we can add a nice piece of roast beef to the menu if she would prefer."

"No, I think she would prefer the curries, truth be told." It had been one of their shared loves, having introduced Eliza to the spices of the Subcontinent when she was old and brave enough to try something new.

Soon Eliza and Brandon met at dinner-it being nearly eleven at night-but nevertheless, famished, they tore into the lamb korma and soft, herb-and garlic-coated naan bread with the vigor appropriate to an earlier time of day. Eliza, he noticed, drank an abundance of water-"Forgive me! It has been some time since I have eaten something with so much heat!" and he was solicitous for her health. "Nonsense; I am enjoying this. I haven't been properly full since I left Bath." She continued to eat and drink water until he feared she would be sick. Then the pair of them made a pact to retire to their chambers and regroup in the morning to discuss further plans for Eliza's comfort and privacy during and after her experience of confinement.

Brandon, who had started the morning on such a relative high note, couldn't help but feel conflicted. He looked at his reflection in the looking glass as he removed his clothing, noting the exhaustion present in the dark circles under his eyes and the set of his mouth. He was so conflicted-was it appropriate to feel relief for having recovered his ward? Or should he be drowning in the shame of having suffered her reputation to be irrevocably tarnished, his own name dragged down in connexion to hers? As a feeling man, a man whose first care was for the needs of others, he was inclined to be as the father of the Prodigal Son-but as a man of military experience, as well as a man raised with the cultural principles of honor and manly pride, he felt pressed to rebuke himself for his satisfaction with Eliza's mere safety-and he felt an urge, bred into him by his father and his father's father, to seek out her fellow transgressor at any cost and make him pay for sullying his ward's innocence.

Stripping down to his shirt and drawers, the Colonel threw himself onto the bed and tried, restlessly, to achieve sleep, his mind on this development with Eliza, his life in Devonshire all but forgotten for the time being. He reasoned that he had more pressing problems. At length he drifted off.

However, his subconscious would not let him forget his friends there entirely. Brandon dreamed of Marianne, and it was a more vivid dream than any fantasy he had ever indulged in in his conscious mind.

In his dream, Marianne came to him in his study at Delaford. She approached him with a beatific smile, the same smile he had seen her bestow upon Willoughby. He was sitting in his wing back chair, and she walked into the room and closed the door, then slowly walked towards him, her eyes flashing with desire. He cleared his throat as she neared him, and felt the blood rush toward his nether regions as she bent down to him and kissed him. Dream-Marianne's lips were as soft and inviting as they looked in real life, and he took her face in his hands, sliding his tongue into her mouth as she lifted her skirts up high enough to straddle him in the chair. He moved to hold her to him, grasping through her skirt at her waist and her backside, the backs of her thighs, finally reaching for the hem of her dress and engaging his hands with the bare skin of her lower body. Dream-Marianne moaned into his lips as he found her soft mound of desire and reached down with an expert hand to stroke his member, unbuttoning the front panel of his breeches to gain better access to his bare, throbbing flesh. It was his turn to moan now, and he took the opportunity of breaking away from his dream-lady's lips to murmur into the soft skin of her neck, "Hadn't you better be with Mr. Willoughby, rather than me?"

"Ha!" She laughed, not stopping the ministrations that were driving him mad. "What does Willoughby know of the ways of love? You are the one I want." She captured his lips once again and his body responded with almost violent force, and in his dream guided himself into her body, taking her in one smooth stroke, and then threw his head back in blissful abandon as she rode him, crying out, "Colonel Brandon! Colonel Brandon!"

He woke to a still-dark room, feeling the discomfort of his erection pressing into the fabric of his drawers at the memory of his pleasant dream, to the sound of Mrs. Bhatt pounding frantically on the door of his chamber. "Colonel Brandon! Colonel Brandon!"

"Dear God, what is it?" he exclaimed hoarsely, rubbing his eyes and adjusting himself in the gloomy darkness.

"Miss Eliza-Miss Williams-she is nearing her time."

"Shit. Shit, shit." Brandon forgot everything other than Eliza's distress, throwing on his dressing gown and opening the door quickly. "Has a doctor been called?"

"My husband is making the arrangements to send for one as we speak." She hurried with him along to Eliza's rooms.

"She said she would have another two weeks of waiting. We have only just got here."

"In my experience," Mrs. Bhatt replied, "spicy foods and exertion can bring about labor. Miss Eliza has just experienced both of these things in a short time."

"Goddammit, it's my fault." He punched the wainscoting as he walked, and then rubbed his hand.

"Nonsense. I could tell when she arrived that her time was near. Something in her gait."

"What can I do?" Brandon asked plaintively.

"Wait and see what will happen. The doctor will be here as soon as possible."

As they approached Eliza's door, they heard a scream from the occupant that made it seem as if she were in the throes of a demonic possession. Brandon burst through, rushing towards the bed at a near-run. "Eliza!"

"Oh, Colonel, I'm so afraid!" she gasped, between anguished cries.

"My darling girl-you'll be fine! Please, take courage!" At this moment he faced the possibility that she, whom he had just found again, might be lost to him, her tiny body ripped apart by the force of her pain. He had known many men of his connexion in India who had lost their wives and sisters in such a way. He forced himself not to panic. "What can I do?"

"Please-hold my hand," she sobbed, and he rushed to fulfill her request, blanching as she squeezed it so hard that it cut off his circulation. He looked up in silent gratitude at Mrs. Bhatt, who held a basin of water and a cloth over Eliza and began to wipe her damp forehead.

"Promise me, Colonel-promise me you won't leave me," Eliza begged.

"I promise. Of course, I promise, Eliza. I am here." If he had to watch Eliza die, as he had watched her mother die all those years ago-he knew the pain of it would likely kill him, too. But he could not abandon her as her lover had. Whatever man that was, he should be the one who sat here, agonizing over the possibility of losing someone dear to him. Brandon gritted his teeth at the thought, bracing himself as Eliza began to bear down on his hand with renewed energy, her body contracting in pain.

After about two hours of this, which seemed to Brandon like a lifetime, the London doctor finally stepped into the room, his bag in hand. He took in the situation around him, shook hands with Brandon, and politely asked when that man would be leaving so that he could take stock of how ready Eliza was to deliver her child.

"I'm not leaving her side."

The doctor raised an eyebrow. "Begging your pardon, but it is not fitting that you be here."

"That may be the case, but I shall stay nevertheless."

Eliza, looking at both men, appeared frightened, a tear slipping down the corner of her eye as she reached the crest of her next wave of pain.

"Colonel Brandon, I recognize that you are the man of the house here. It is, however, my professional duty to this young woman that I maintain propriety and ask you to step away while Miss Williams is delivered of her child."

"Damn your professional duty," Brandon quietly said, "this is my ward. She is mine to look after, and she requests my presence."

"Your butler informs me of the relationship between you and this woman," the doctor retorted hotly. "You have no blood relationship to her, and moreover, you are a man of her acquaintance with no medical training. Your presence here is unwanted, improper, and dare I say, unchristian. You. Must. Leave."

"No medical training?" Brandon shrieked incredulously. "I helped to nurse my men with cholera and shrapnel wounds back to health in India when you were still pissing yourself in anxiousness over your first surgical table in Edinburgh. If you will eject me from a chamber in my own house-"

"Doctor, please," Eliza begged, interrupting. "He is my only father, and my only friend. I must have him here… I don't think I can do this without him here."

The doctor looked from Brandon, steely and firm in his resolve, to Eliza, looking as if she would tremble apart if she were one iota more frightened. He sighed, exasperated.

"Very well. You," he pointed at Colonel forcefully, "will respect her privacy with regard to this process. You will not try to help or touch her in any way. You will respect my authority as the professional called in to handle this matter. You will restrict your eyes to the young lady's face and the wallpaper-"

"Would you like to bind my hands and blindfold me?" the Colonel asked. "Rest assured, the lady is as safe with me as with a eunuch. She is my daughter." It may not be the literal truth, but it was true in all ways that mattered, from Brandon's perspective.

At any rate, the doctor seemed, reluctantly, to take him at his word. He carried on as needed, poking and prodding under Eliza's bedclothes, directing a servant to fetch towels, boil water, sterilize a knife, and bring freshly damp cloths for Eliza's perspiring skin. Brandon stayed, steadfast despite his awful terror, doing his best to put on a brave face for Eliza, who must be even more frightened than he was.

He thought of a way to cheer her up, and reached behind him into her trunk to retrieve Raja-hoping at least to make her laugh. She saw the tiger and immediately reached for it, a faint smile playing on her lips through her exhaustion and agony.

"Raja wants you to be brave. Tigers are always brave," he whispered the mantra from her childhood, conscious of the doctor possibly listening in to their inside joke.

"But what if tigers are facing things they are not able to fight?" Eliza replied, wanly.

"My dear Eliza, not all fights are physical fights." He looked down. "And sometimes those are the most daunting fights of all. You must be brave anyway." _Do something about it, or die already_ , John's words came back to him.

"How can I be brave when I feel so ashamed? Perhaps it would be better that I die here. My mother would have turned against me in hatred had she seen what has become of me."

"No...no, Eliza. Your mother-she loved you more than anything. She would always have loved you. I am sure she loves you still."

"And you? Would it be better for you if I died here?"

"Please-Eliza-no," he cried. "Be strong. You must know that I care for you as a daughter. I didn't lie earlier. If I lost you-" he was cut off by an oncoming contraction, one of the strongest ones yet.

"Why are you so kind to me, when you know what I have done?" she breathed heavily, trying to catch her bearings again. "Is it because you still love my mother, after all this time?"

"Yes. And no." It was his turn to squeeze her hand. "I honor her memory. I honor the love that I once had for her, and I still love the woman she was before life hardened her." The part of him that loved the elder Eliza was the part of him that looked to the past, but the more time he spent around the Dashwood clan, the more that part of him dwindled compared with his desire to ascertain his future happiness (however hopeless that desire seemed). "Mostly, I value you as a member of my family. And I want you to be safe, and happy."

"I shall never be happy again, Colonel," she mused.

Oh, how many times had he himself uttered, or thought, those same words.

"My dear, life finds ways of introducing unexpected joys in the midst of sorrow and difficulty. You must become attuned to them." The dream-vision of Marianne Dashwood appeared before him unsolicited, and he pushed her away for the time being.

At long last her delivery was nigh. It had been at least four hours, by Brandon's reckoning, and the sun had begun to peek through the drawn curtains. For several more agonizing minutes, Eliza screamed, panted, and strained, and at long last-to Brandon's relief and Eliza's-a babe was born, a girl, who was laid upon Eliza's still-heaving belly with much tenderness.

Brandon was offered dismissal by Eliza-he had been awakened in the middle of the night, after all-but he chose to wait at her side for a while longer, while the babe was washed and dressed by a servant. Soon Eliza herself was asleep. Brandon rubbed his eyes, waited while the servant brought the babe back in the room, and offered to take her while her mother achieved some semblance of rest.

"Charity," the name that Eliza had chosen for her baby, came to Brandon's lips as he held her and rocked her slowly. This was by far the smallest child he had ever held, young Eliza herself having been three, almost four, when she had first entered his life. He stared at the babe, reflecting on the events that had brought him here. Eliza could have been his flesh-and-blood daughter, he knew, had circumstances been different. Tiny Charity could have been his real-life granddaughter. There was nothing physical connecting him to this little child, but she did not seem to care by the way she looked up at him, wide-eyed, making her first impressions of the world. What a world to be born into-a world in which she would be in constant danger, either from persistent loneliness, cruelty, or the mundanity of married dependence, simply because she did not have the correct genitalia. If he could do parts of his life over again, he thought maybe he would take baby Eliza away to France where his sister dwelled, or maybe even to India, away from all English people and their hypocrisies, expectations, and disappointments. Raise her as a son, instead of a daughter, and teach her how to take care of herself, how to provide for herself, and how to value herself beyond the valuation of men. Maybe he could remove Charity from all this-how easy it would be, now in the night with Eliza asleep, to abscond with the child and raise her to be ignorant of the inequalities and impolitic cruelties of this life. Alas, it could never be. She was not, in the end, his child. He would likely never have the opportunity to even seriously contemplate such decisions, for who would ever give him a child of his own?

A servant had dug a bassinet out of an unused old nursery closet and brought it into Eliza's room, and Brandon gently laid the baby in the small cradle, blinking in her sleepiness. The old tiger toy, Raja, had been slung on the chest of drawers next to Eliza's bed, and he tucked him in at the foot of the cradle, a friendly face for Charity to wake up to. Then he made to leave the room. Seeing Eliza's trunk still open, he went to close it to keep the room tidy-but something caught his eye.

A familiar hand appeared on a paper in Eliza's bundle, which she had thrust into the trunk before leaving her London flat. It wasn't the top sheet-it was hidden in the middle, but due to the rush with which she had packed, he assumed it had slid out from where she had placed it. He peered closer, then reached for the candle that rested on the bedstand. What he was looking at was clearly a private letter, not Eliza's handwriting, but someone else's. Was it acceptable for him to read her letter, or would it be a complete breach of her trust?

He was tired, and had just ridden through the day to be at her side to save her from being alone in her confinement. He had given up a night of sleep to stay by her side. Surely it was not outside of his role to glance at her letter. He gently tugged. It came free of the stack and he began reading by candlelight.

"My dearest Eliza,

I am certainly touched by your affectionate regard and solicitous inquiries about me. You have been an excellent friend to me, and I thank you wholeheartedly for the time I was able to spend with you while in Bath. Those days will stand in my memory forever as some of the best I have ever known. However, I must tell you in deep sorrow that the promise I made you-that we would be together again soon-cannot be. I have been called upon for consultation on a family matter, and it seems that I am to be away for an indefinite period of time-but when I return it is likely I shall be married.

I again regret with all my heart that you and I will not be able to reunite our acquaintance, and as a token of my apology, please accept once more the lock of hair which you bestowed upon me on our first night of intimacy. I think it may be better shared with one who is not forced by circumstances to be a promise-breaker.

Yours in heart, if not in body any longer,

John Willoughby"

For a long time after realizing the familiar hand was matched to a familiar name, Brandon could do nothing but stare at the letter without seeing its words, his whole body and mind shaken. Then, he shifted his gaze to the woman, now a mother, lying on the bed. He watched her sleep for several moments. The letter he slowly folded and tucked into the pocket of his dressing gown. At last, he stood up, planted a gentle kiss on the innocent babe's forehead as he bent over her bassinet, and strode out the door to his own chambers. And calmly, with no visible change in his demeanor or expression, he reached into his bags for writing materials and began penning a letter:

"J. M.,

I will require your assistance at once, in the role of my second, to resolve the issue which we at length discussed this past morning. If you are willing, please come without delay, or if your heart has changed, please post your refusal with haste so that I may find a suitable replacement. It cannot wait beyond a matter of days.

Your brother,

C. B."

Handing the letter to the footman to post as soon as possible, Christopher dressed and awaited full daylight by the window of his bedroom, unmoving, keeping lengthy vigil for John's chaise.

(Check out "Gun" by CHVRCHES.)


	4. Goodbye, Goodbye

"Brandon,

I assume you mean that we will join to restore Miss Eliza's honor against her offender. You know that, because of our company, I must delay for a couple of days before I join you in town. I also must inform you, should you be unfamiliar with the rules of engagement, that you that you must contact the man personally to challenge him, and give him an opportunity to name his second. I can do nothing until this step has been fulfilled. Regardless of whether you choose to go through with this or not, I am at your service, as your second, or as your friend. I shall see you on Friday, come what may.

-JM"

Brandon had taken no meals, and had been deliberating in his room all afternoon after receiving the posted letter. He had also not seen Eliza. All he had been able to do was alternately seethe and pace helplessly.

On the one hand, he longed to go to Eliza, make sure she was alright. He had sent word to her through Bhatt that he was catching up on his rest after a long night, and hoped she wouldn't suspect otherwise.

On the other hand, the thought of talking to her about Willoughby-the very idea of confirming his already unwavering suspicions-was nauseating to him. Eliza-his Eliza! His Eliza's Eliza! For her to have become entangled with that-with him-the idea of making certain it was true, of eliminating all room for doubt, meant that Brandon had not only Eliza's, but Miss Marianne's fate to worry about now. It was too much to bear.

And then, if Willoughby had been the villain, to have to go to him-in person-and accuse him, challenge him! Brandon was a man used to combat and hardship-he had a few scars to prove it-but to engage in a duel here, in mild, sedate England-for what? So that both of them would risk their lives? But it had to be done, Brandon argued back with himself. It had to be done.

He knew that, after everything, he and his second would have to travel back to Devonshire to meet with the scoundrel. He hadn't told Sir John of Willoughby's identity, feeling as though it would be horrible if the letter were somehow intercepted before the two men had an opportunity to talk it over. At least he knew he would not be keeping John away from his family for long.

Finally, because of the pain in his stomach rather than due to any actual appetite in his taste, he allowed Bhatt to bring him a slice of brown bread and some brandy. The bread tasted like nothing, but the brandy fortified him. He supposed he could delay no longer. He must confront Eliza.

He made his way to her chamber and knocked, and the door was opened by Mrs. Bhatt, who showed him in to where the girl lay with her newborn in her arms. Brandon managed a smile for the pair of them, and then asked Mrs. Bhatt to leave them for a few moments so he could speak privately with Eliza.

"Oh, Mrs. Bhatt, could you take Charity for a bath? I would appreciate it."

"Certainly, ma'am."

The older woman exited with babe in arms. Brandon sat gingerly on the chair near the chest. He pulled the letter out of his waistcoat pocket.

"Eliza, I must confess to you that I saw a letter last night which was of your possession."

Eliza, whose face had been all smiles, paled. "Oh?"

"It was from a man named John Willoughby."

Eliza's face blanched completely, and Brandon feared for a moment that she would lose consciousness. "Oh," she whispered.

Brandon opened the letter, still holding it in his hands. "Is he Charity's father?"

Eliza stared straight ahead of her. Her face and head didn't move at all, but telltale tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "I told you I didn't want to tell."

"Are you protecting him, Eliza?"

"Colonel, that's not fair," she spoke through tears. "You read my letters without asking."

"It's my job to protect you. I will do what I have to do to protect you."

"Well, I bloody well don't need protecting anymore, do I?" she was incredulous. "There's nothing left to protect. You didn't protect me then, and if you try to go after Johnny like some vengeful Roman god now, you'll only get yourself killed!"

"Johnny?" the Colonel repeated snidely.

"Yes. Johnny. He was sweet, and kind, and...and it wasn't his fault! I was the one who…I wanted him to..."

"You're too young to even know how to make those kinds of decisions," he interrupted. "John Willoughby is a gentleman, and he should have respected you like any other gentleman would have. And he dishonored me, too, in the process."

"There it is!" Eliza shouted and pointed at him, rising to her knees in the bed, her eyes ablaze. It was the most fire Brandon had ever seen in her. "That's what's really bothering you. It's your own stupid honor. What has happened to you? The Colonel Brandon I know wouldn't go off and fight someone to avenge a woman who didn't want to be avenged. I knew there was something else in it. You care more about your honor than you do about me."

"You think a man's honor isn't worth fighting for?"

"Why does my chastity have to affect your fucking honor?"

"It just does," he answered through gritted teeth. "I don't make the rules. That's how the world works. It's shit, but it's true."

Neither of them had ever cursed in front of one another before. Brandon didn't even know where she had learned such language-she hadn't been surrounded by hundreds of rough young men throughout her formative period like he had. It felt to Brandon like a floodgate had opened, and a new chapter in their familial relationship had begun.

"I swear, if you hurt him, I'll never speak to you again," Eliza threatened-her anger a bit deflated, her eyes still boring into his, still weeping, more mournful than ever.

Brandon could do nothing but stand and turn his back to her, running a finger along the edge of the basin on her washstand. "I don't have a choice," he murmured.

Eliza began to sob, and then to hyperventilate into the bedclothes. "Eliza-" he tried to console her, but she wailed, then sobbed even louder. "Eliza you can't still be in love with him after all he has put you through. Did you ever attempt to contact him after you knew you were with child?"

"He couldn't-" she choked. "He couldn't-marry me-because-he was about to be engaged to-someone else."

"Yes, that's what it says in the letter. But does he know he got you with child?"

She nodded glumly. "He said he couldn't-"

"So he declined to marry you even after he knew you were pregnant, and before he was officially…" he hated the sound of the word as it came out of his mouth, "engaged." He had no doubt who the "someone else" was.

"Yes, but-"

"Can't you see? Can't you see that he has done you abominably wrong?"

"Oh, God, my heart is broken! Just leave me, please!" she wailed, and her sobs were now so loud that Mrs. Bhatt came back into the room, saw him standing there looming over her, and gave him a glare.

"Colonel Brandon, you have upset her. Why? She needs her rest!"

"Please go!" Eliza begged into her pillow.

So Brandon left.

The next two days were spent in agony by everyone at Anders Grove. The Bhatts were confused at the sudden tension, after the arrival of such a sweet baby. Eliza was furious with the Colonel, who was furious with everyone and everything, Eliza included. The only bright spot was Charity herself, who seemed impervious to the morose atmosphere, and looked around at everything with the bright wisdom and curiosity that only an infant possesses. Brandon stole moments with her when Eliza was sleeping, rocking her, bouncing her, and telling her Raja stories-more to soothe himself than her, he almost allowed. Finally, a letter came from Devonshire:

Brandon,

I am coming today from Barton and will see you as soon as I arrive. Incidentally, if you are to be in town for a while, you might look up John Willoughby-I hear from the Dashwoods that he is to be in London for quite some time, and they are eager to find out what his business is, since he left so suddenly (and you know how your favorite Marianne dotes on him).

-Your friend,

JM

(Today's song choice: "Goodbye, Goodbye" by Tegan and Sara)


	5. White Blank Page

John had come yesterday around tea time, had taken a brief meal to refresh himself, and had then locked himself in the study with Brandon to get down to brass tacks. If anything, Chris's old friend had been just as vehement about Willoughby being Eliza's seducer as Chris himself had.

"I cannot believe I let him into my home! With my wife and children! And-oh, dear!" John suddenly put his head in his hands.

"Yes, we've all been misled by him," Chris said, wearily, taking another gulp of brandy.

"No, that's not it-and anyway I know you've always hated him." Brandon acknowledge his friend's truth by gesturing his glass in his direction. "But something has...happened."

"What?" Chris was suddenly alert.

"The day you left-well, I don't know whether I should tell you."

"Spit it out, man."

"Well...Miss Marianne and Mr. Willoughby...they rode off together."

"What do you mean, rode off?" Brandon put down his glass and sat forward in his seat.

"I mean...they rode off, alone, and apparently went to Allenham, unchaperoned. They were gone for hours."

Brandon sat back in his chair.

"The rumor, at least, is that he has a lock of her hair. So at least-"

"At least he will likely marry her," Brandon finished quietly. It seemed like a good time to finish his drink and pour another.

"No-at least he planned to marry her. But you have to see that he cannot! We will stop him!"

"This isn't about Marianne, John. It's about Eliza."

"Exactly. And you have to go to Willoughby and make him marry Eliza. So then, Miss Marianne will be free, don't you see?"

 _Except then I shall be the instrument of Marianne's unhappiness_ , Brandon thought. _She will always think of me as the man who ruined her chance at marriage to the man she loved._ Not that it mattered. She would never think twice about him-either because she was married to Willoughby, or because she was torn from him by _his_ hand. _Stop thinking about Marianne. You have work to do._ "I'm not concerned about the Dashwoods, not right now. We need to talk about Willoughby."

John and Chris discussed what they must do. The Colonel indulged in a rare pipe at John's suggestion, and the study rapidly took on the atmosphere of a club, smoky and brandy-scented and full of men's big talk, rather than a quiet suburban house. The plan went: Chris would go to Willoughby's house in Mayfair, where he would make a formal challenge and demand that Willoughby marry Eliza immediately. If that failed (as Chris secretly hoped it would, not wanting Eliza to be forever connected with that sniveling toad), Willoughby would have to name his second, who would be in communication with Sir John to choose the site for their contest. And then Willoughby's second would inform them of the weapon of choice. Brandon had left a really nice set of dueling pistols at Delaford the last time he was home, a set that had belonged in his father's family for about a hundred years-but he had never used them, nor had it been something he'd ever have thought necessary to bring on his travels. Luckily John had brought a selection of weapons, secretly smuggling them out of the house while telling his wife and mother-in-law that he had been called to London on legal business. It didn't do, he'd said, unveiling his cache to Brandon, to tell women these types of things.

The more specific details would need to be ironed out after John met with Willoughby's second. The two men adjourned to their rooms, Brandon checking with Mrs. Bhatt on his way to bed to make sure Eliza was still alright.

"She is just fine. But she still doesn't want to speak with you. I have tried to make her see reason, sir-"

"No, it's-it's fine. I understand. She may come around eventually." He sighed, and then trudged into his bed, where he collapsed, his clothes still on, atop the bedcovers. It had been some days since he had slept more than a couple of hours at a time.

That night, in the depth of his slumber, Brandon had another dream about Marianne Dashwood that echoed the one from the night of Eliza's delivery. It started out pleasant enough. Brandon was again sitting in his wingback chair, watching Marianne enter the study, close the door behind her, and stride seductively towards him. She began to kiss him, to undress him, and then she lowered herself onto his lap and began nuzzling his neck gently and whispering to him, things like "How I long for you," and "I wish you would take me now, right here." And he whispered back into her hair, things like "My beautiful Marianne," and "God, I have wanted you for so long," and "Please, let me touch you," and "Tell me you love me." And then the door opened again, and in popped Willoughby.

"That's enough of that, love," Willoughby directed at Marianne. "Come with me." And Willoughby grabbed Marianne's arm a bit roughly, and jerked her over to the desk where he swept the items it contained-a sheaf of papers, and two miniatures, one of Eliza and one of her mother-onto the hardwood floor. The frames of the miniatures cracked on impact. Willoughby proceeded to heft Marianne up onto the desk, shoved her dress up around her waist, unbutton his breeches, and fuck her, still mostly clothed, sans gentleness, sans passion, sans anything other than the animal need to fuck-and, because of the dark magic of dreams, Brandon could do nothing but watch, his own erection lost as his senses of horror and hopelessness mounted. He woke the next morning, bile rising in his throat, and thought on his day's task.

At breakfast, for which Eliza was finally well enough to join Brandon and John, Brandon was silent. Eliza, who had known John of yore, made polite speech to him. He expressed an interest in seeing the babe, which produced the first smile Brandon had seen from her in days. She began talking of Charity's beauty, the seven brown curls she'd counted on her head, and the color of her eyes, which she alluded were the same color as the father's, and that ended that conversation when she realized the awkward silence that hung in the air. She took her leave and skulked back to her room.

John offered to come with Brandon on his journey to Mayfair, but Brandon declined. This was something he needed to do alone. So he got into the carriage and mused.

He and John had planned exactly what he would say to Willoughby when he arrived. The speech had sounded formal in Brandon's ears the first time he had spoken it out, but they had both agreed that it was best to have complete control of the conversation. He would say, _Mr. Willoughby, it has come into my knowledge that you have seduced and abandoned a woman for whom I am responsible, Miss Eliza Williams. She has now borne your child, and it is up to me to make certain that you do your duty by her and offer her marriage to salvage her reputation. If you cannot, please be advised that I shall have to challenge you in the field of honor to take vengeance upon you for your actions towards her._ He repeated this speech several times as he neared the neighborhood where it was said Willoughby had returned yesterday.

Finally, too soon in his opinion, the carriage pulled up in front of the correct address on - Street. Brandon descended, and walked in, introducing himself to the footman. A moment later, Willoughby was coming towards him, emerging into the foyer with three brightly dressed young women trailing behind him, looking halfway like harem girls. Willoughby greeted him. "Hello, good old Colonel Brandon! I do remember that you had come to London for business. Well, welcome, for I have done the same! These are some of my friends-Miss Helen Chase, and Miss Elizabeth Merrick"- two of the human peacocks curtsied and grinned at the Colonel-"and their chaperone, Mrs. Susan Stacey, wife of Captain Charles Stacey." The third woman, married but still clearly young and vacant-headed enough to be enamored of an ostentatious prat like Willoughby, simpered at the interloper as well, and spoke to him:

"We heard our dear friend Mr. Willoughby was in town again, and since my husband has been at sea these past few months, we've been so lonely, and couldn't wait another minute to come visit him! But alas, we'd best be going, for we have a luncheon to attend," and they flocked out the door, their feathery frocks almost getting caught in the door frame as they exited. And now it was just Brandon and Willoughby, staring at each other in the empty foyer, and Brandon could not call up the speech he and John had prepared, not to save his own life.

"You reprehensible piece of undiluted shit," was what came out of his mouth. The words hung in the air.

Willoughby threw back his head in laughter. Through mirthful tears he said, "I'm sorry, Colonel Brandon, but that was quite a way to say hello to a friend."

"We aren't _friends_ , sir, not any longer. I must demand that you marry Miss Eliza Williams at once," Brandon spat.

Willoughby paled-slightly-then recovered. "Eliza-What do you know of that? And why is it any of your business?"

"She is my ward."

"Your bastard, you mean."

"She is my _ward_ ," he emphasized. "And she has just borne your child."

"My child?"

"Yes. She told me she had corresponded with you on this matter, and that you had refused her on the grounds that there was another woman."

"Actually I refused her mostly on the grounds that she was likely lying." Willoughby had taken a hostile tone to match the Colonel's harsh one. "Unconnected women lie about these kinds of things all the time to try to trap men of substance into marrying them. Or have you so little experience with women that you don't know that?" Willoughby sneered.

Brandon ignored the insinuation. "She was not lying. You can come see the babe for yourself. She is yours. It's obvious."

"That lying tramp," Willoughby breathed. "Do you know she wrote to my aunt, at Allenham, this week? That's why I'm removed to London. I couldn't stay there-my life in Devonshire is over! My aunt has expelled me from Allenham, and her will!"

"She has some sense, then. You have acted most unbecoming to a man of your station."

"How dare you chastise me?"

"I chastise you as the protector of Miss Eliza Williams. You must marry her if you have any respect for yourself, or for your position in society."

"Marry her?" Willoughby exclaimed. "I barely interacted with her. We were intimate two, maybe three times before I removed from Bath. And anyway, I couldn't marry her, even if I wanted to. What would we live on?"

"She is not entirely unconnected. I will offer-"

"What, the property you have on the outskirts of London, her dowry the scant profit your farms make after you coddle your farmers and charge them so little on rent that you live barely above the station of the tenants themselves? No thank you. I cannot live on that. Some people have standards."

"Well, if you refuse, then I must challenge you to a duel."

"I'm sorry-a what?"

"You heard me."

"On what grounds?" Willoughby began to laugh hysterically, and Brandon waited for him to calm down before responding.

"On the grounds that your actions, and your refusal to account for them, have dishonored me, and my ward, and your own self."

"Fuck off."

Brandon tensed up, felt his fist balling up-he was not a violent man by nature, but Willoughby was provoking him to no end.

"Do you need me to slap you with my glove? Do you need me to make it that obvious? I. Am. Challenging. You. To. A. Duel. Are we speaking the same language? Do you need a bloody lexicon?"

"Or what?"

"Or the news your cowardice will follow you everywhere you go."

The thought of his reputation being marred hit Willoughby exactly as Brandon had known it would. His face turned red. "Fine. I shall-I shall appoint a second."

"Good. Please do so by the end of the day tomorrow and have him contact my second at my address. Here is my card." Brandon produced it. "I will be waiting." And he turned on his heels and made for the door.

"I must say, old man," said Willoughby at his back, "I didn't think you had it in you. After the poncey way you've been mooning over Marianne Dashwood, even though you hadn't a shot in hell with her-I thought you'd be the type to moan into your teacup instead of going through with it."

At the mention of Marianne, Brandon stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned. "You are attempting to provoke me into striking you here and now, so you can have done with this thing and publicize my words to your little friends as the ravings of an old lunatic. I assure you, you will not meet your goal. And I also assure you that if you ever talk to me of Marianne Dashwood again, I will reveal to her everything you have done to Eliza, and she will never want to look at you again."

"Then we shall be on the same footing," Willoughby countered. "She already told me she would be just dandy if she never saw you again. You bore her, _Colonel_ ," he pronounced Brandon's title derisively. "Not that she even has room to be judgmental, for she is even more poverty-stricken than Eliza Williams. She should have been throwing herself at you, begging you to take her, but instead she wanted me-which just goes to show you the difference between you and me, doesn't it. Your days of being the big damn military hero are over. You have nothing to offer, and your money means nothing to her. She wants me. It's clear in her eyes. And you have absolutely no claim on her, so I dare you to try and tell me about speaking of her, or to her, because you have no right."

Brandon's fists clenched and unclenched. Then he simply said, "Tomorrow. By ten tomorrow night. I will wait." And then he walked out and slammed the door behind him, fuming, and entered the carriage. His head in his hands, he wept all the way back to Anders Grove.

(Note to readers: I am going back and adding a song to the end of each chapter I have published so far of each of my stories, if you want some atmosphere with which to take in the Marianne/Brandon-ness. For chapter 5, check out "White Blank Page," by Mumford and Sons.)


	6. Dead and Gone

(For some reason I'm listening to T.I.'s "Dead and Gone," while writing this.)

The minute the French behemoth, Musel, stormed out the door after ironing out Willoughby's terms to him, Sir John made his way back into the parlor where Brandon sat tossing back his fourth scotch since he'd gotten back from Mayfair. "Get up," he said. "We're going to the club."

Brandon was in no state of mind to argue. He found himself being bundled into his carriage, John packed in next to him, and together they lumbered off to St. James where they found their old haunt the same as ever. Brandon inhaled the familiarity of the air, and contemplated that Sir John had been correct, that this was exactly what he needed tonight. No women, no insignificant pricks like Willoughby, just the smells of old tobacco, leather, booze, roast beef, and useless political argument. Ah, England.

The two men took their dinners and glasses of port at a table with two men of their slight acquaintance and got into a heated debate about the American problem, Brandon mostly keeping quiet but Sir John waxing so poetic on the topic that Brandon had to laugh once or twice. Then one of his conversants said something blatantly wrong, and Brandon jumped in and crushed him, thrilling in the feel of the port flowing through his veins and the new topic to keep his mind from the Willoughbys and Dashwoods of the world.

The four of them cordially shook hands before the other two left, and they were joined by three newcomers, welcomed by Brandon and John. "Fred Wentworth," the first introduced himself. And this is Will Darcy and Charles Bingley, old friends from our Cambridge days."

"Pleasure to meet you. You're new here, I take it?"

"It's my first day," Bingley said. "Fred and Will been a member for about a month."

The three of them, baby-faced and doe-eyed, filled Brandon with nostalgia for his youth. "We're glad to welcome you. It's nice that new blood is coming to temper the stodginess that old men like us bring to the establishment," John said.

"Well, it's been a rough day for Fred here. We needed to get him out of the house," Bingley said. He looked like he was even younger than Marianne.

"Oh?"

"Women trouble," Darcy drawled with a sarcasm that made him seem older. He took out a pipe and filled it. "Seems like they're nothing but."

"That's easy for you to say. You have money. You can have nearly any woman in England if you wanted. When you're destitute-well, then you learn to appreciate what it is you can't have." Wentworth sighed into his brandy.

"And let's not forget, Darce, you are all but engaged, after all!" Bingley jocundly elbowed his friend in the ribs.

"Ah. Congratulations are in order?" Brandon raised an eyebrow as he asked.

"Ugh. My overly solicitous aunt is obsessed with the idea of my marrying her horrible daughter, who is currently fourteen and has the look of having smelled something foul permanently etched onto her face."

"Your wealthy aunt. With a million billion pounds and a title. I swear, you take everything for granted." Wentworth finished his drink. "Unless I somehow make an outrageous fortune in the Navy, I'm looking at a lifetime of loneliness."

Brandon's ears perked up with interest in this morose young man, such an echo of himself at a younger age. The five of them conversed for some time, comparing connexions they shared, talking a little of France's tenuous political situation, and finally pulling out a deck of cards for a bit of fun. Brandon wasn't in a mood for it, and neither was Wentworth, and the two of them stepped out onto the terrace, pipes in hand. Brandon took a long drag, blew a smoke ring that impressed his companion (it had been years since he had smoked so much, but it was coming back to him), and asked: "So, what's your story?"

Wentworth confessed: Her name was Anne Elliot. She was a fine young woman-and here, his voice cracked with emotion. She loved him, he was sure of it. But she put the concerns of her family and friends above the concerns of her own heart. She broke off their engagement on the grounds of his financial station. And he, in a fit of anguish, had committed to another stint in the Navy to escape the growing despair he'd feel if he stayed in England without her.

Brandon, so moved by his new friend's story, told of his own past source of heartbreak, eliminating the mention of Marianne, who was his current source of heartbreak. He related to the young Commander the story of Eliza, and their forbidden love, and his Army days, and Eliza's daughter.

"Does it ever go away? The hurt you feel? Right now, I feel I could die from it."

"It fades with time, maybe. There are days when I feel the pain of losing Eliza still, but...life has moved on for me. Now there are fresh agonies to contend with," he said, smiling wryly.

"I don't think I'll ever forget Anne. I love her...I still love her so much. She's so gentle… and kind…" Wentworth began sobbing into his drink.

"There, there." Brandon patted his shoulder. They stood in silence for a while, Wentworth trying to get himself together, Brandon thinking miserably on his own problems. _She already told me she would be just dandy if she never saw you again. You bore her...You have nothing to offer... She wants me. It's clear in her eyes. And you have absolutely no claim on her._ These words rang in Brandon's head.

That night, after Chris and John stumbled back into Anders Grove pissed and still irritated at the state of things, the former got into bed and tried to bring himself to climax. He didn't want to run the risk of any dreams about Marianne Dashwood tonight, or he might go stark raving mad, and he tried to banish her from his mind. He ran through the images of the eight or so women he'd bedded, all paid company, when in India in the years after Eliza's death-none of them were particularly beautiful, but they comprised the entirety of his experience, and he needed something to aid his efforts. But each time he thought of a smooth-ish limb or a soft-ish breast he had encountered, the thought of Marianne insinuated itself in between him and his enjoyment. Her fingers flying across the keyboard… her lip bitten in concentration...her eyes filled with passion… the idea of those eyes rolled back in her head as he entered her, and the imagined sound of a whimper escaping her lips…

A few minutes later, as he drifted off to sleep, he wondered philosophically about the ability to be satisfied and unsatisfied at the same time.


	7. Sic Transit Gloria

Listening to "Sic Transit Gloria," by Brand New.

Saturday. The day was here. Brandon and Willoughby were to duel this morning, at eight, in a clearing Musel had in mind, halfway between Greenwich and the the City. Willoughby wanted pistols. They'd use John's pistols. All was set.

Brandon wretched a few times into the basin, his nerves completely wasted, his resolve nevertheless set. He declined breakfast. He declined everything except to refill his hip flask, knowing he may need it closer to the time, to steel himself. Ten minutes before he planned to meet John downstairs and make for the carriage, Eliza knocked on his chamber door.

She entered, babe in arms. "Good morning," she said coolly.

Brandon was surprised to see her, seeing as how she had been studiously avoiding speaking to him since his plans had been made known. Brandon had fumed at her silently, believing her to be acting childishly. But the look on her face now was composed, mature, and full of conviction.

"Good morning. It's good to see you."

"Colonel, I must speak with you. Please just listen."

He bowed his head.

"I am not speaking from my own desires when I ask this. I know you are a man, and that as such, you have been raised to believe that dueling with Mr. Willoughby is your duty. I simply ask you to consider Charity."

She held her baby out to him, and he had no choice but to take her-she made it clear that she trusted him with the baby's weight, that she would let go as soon as his capable arms enclosed her. He looked down at the child. She was just waking up from a nap, and blinked at him, her eyes wide and sparkling. Her face looked in many ways like Willoughby's-the nose, the dark hair, the small dimple-but the eyes were Eliza's. Not the Eliza who stood before him, but the Eliza whom he had once loved. He blinked back at her, his heart somersaulting.

"Do you want to remember, each time you hold her, that you were responsible for maiming, or even killing, her father? Or worse, do you want to die today, knowing that you are leaving her behind without a father, or any man, strong and wise enough to care for her?"

He looked up at Eliza, meeting her eyes, and she came over to embrace him. He stood, holding her child, her arms around him.

"Alia iacta est," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Just please come back across the Rubicon to us," she replied. She took the baby from him. He hung his head, balancing against the doorframe, as he watched her retreat back to her rooms. After a few beats, he made his way downstairs and into the waiting carriage, where he sat, staring straight ahead, and awaited his fate.

Finally the carriage arrived at the appointed place. John and Brandon got out. Willoughby wasn't there yet, so the two of them sighed and sat against a nearby tree, the road in view. Neither of them spoke for some time. Finally, Brandon said, "This is a fool's errand, isn't it."

"You're no fool. But maybe. Probably."

"And I can't back out now, can I?"

"I think not."

"Shit."

"Shit, indeed."

Brandon twiddled his thumbs. John fiddled with the guns, counted bullets, and brushed an ant off his stocking. Finally Willoughby and Musel arrived, their carriage ostentatious, and disembarked. Brandon and John stood up. Brandon brushed off the back of his greatcoat. He locked eyes with Willoughby.

"Mr. Willoughby, we offer you one final chance to reconsider. Marry the girl, dammit! Do what needs to be done, for the sake of your child," John pleaded.

Willoughby looked ruffled, and his eyes looked like they hadn't closed for any length of time recently (Brandon was happy to observe). He glanced at Musel before replying with a bravado belied by a quivering lip, "I could not so lower myself as to do as you say. I have no proof that I got that babe on her, and neither do you."

Brandon's fists and stomach clenched tightly. "Then we'll carry on as planned," he said quietly. "John, the pistols."

John and Musel, the great beast of a Frenchman, inspected the pistols together and each watched as the other loaded one. Musel's looks were inscrutable. He was a silent, brooding fellow, looking as if he'd as soon eat you for breakfast as speak with you. He was also impeccably dressed, and gave the impression of a savage who had just spent his first day in the civilized world in a tailor's shop. Willoughby had chosen a second who both twinned him in some ways and served as his complement. Brandon would have felt outmatched by the pair of them if he didn't know his own skill.

John brought over the gun. "Is the Falcon ready to fly out from the aviary once again?" he asked Brandon, referring to an old nickname the Colonel had earned in the Company.

"John, you know it's been ten years since I've shot anything that didn't have feathers or hooves."

"And you were a deadeye from nearly the first day you picked up a gun. Remember, you each only get one try. Try not to kill him too badly."

"I won't kill him," Brandon said.

"Are you quite sure? And are you sure he won't kill you?"

Brandon didn't reply.

He walked up to Willoughby in the center of the clearing. The younger man gave him a brash grin and began speaking in a voice just loud enough for only Brandon to hear. "You know she loved it, old man? Did she tell you that? Did she tell you how she squirmed and bucked under me? Did she tell you how she begged me to fuck her, again and again? Did she tell you I had her inside a hackney coach in the middle of the day, and she told me she wished someone had heard us? She didn't even bleed, the first time. Did she tell you any of that? The little whore. She probably cried into your shoulder and said I deflowered her. She doesn't want anything but my money, and I have none to give. Go ahead and try to shoot me with that hanging over your head, _old man_." His eyes flashed in challenge.

Brandon's jaw clenched. "Twenty paces," he growled softly.

They turned. John counted.

"One. Two." Eliza Williams stood beautifully among the trees in the copse that bordered Delaford Park, a memory, in a soft blue gown, smiling up at him, asking him to kiss her. He bent down. The sun of the late afternoon filtered through the branches. His young heart skipped beat after beat, and his lips touched hers gently, innocently, sure of having found their home.

"Three. Four." The memory of Eliza, wasted away, dying, lying in her bed at the lodging house, her tiny daughter at her side.

"Five. Six. Seven." He thought of that little girl, eyes smudged with tears, clutching a plush tiger, begging him not to leave her alone with her tutors.

"Eight. Nine." Now, she was a young woman, throwing her gangly arms around his neck, telling him what she had been learning at school and practicing her German and Latin with him.

"Ten. Eleven. Twelve." He thought back to the first time he had seen Marianne Dashwood, her curls framing her heart-shaped face, her voice soaring with a song she really believed in, her nimble, disciplined fingers masterfully proving her capacity for sense as well as sensibility, though her eyes were all passion.

"Thirteen. Fourteen." He had spoken to Marianne a few times, before she met Willoughby, and each time had been impressed by the depth of her yearning, her desire to learn and see all there was to learn and see in the world. He had felt a pull from the core of his being towards her, longing to give her the kinds of experiences and foods for thought that would stoke the fire within her. He knew she didn't look at him with attraction, but he had wondered if perhaps in time…

"Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen." The first time he had seen her with Willoughby, he had known what her face would look like if she looked at him in a loving way. Of course, to see that face beaming its sunshine onto some rakish weed…

"Eighteen." Little Eliza had been so young and afraid. So delicate. So like her mother had been. He had sworn to protect her. He had failed. He would not fail her in this.

"Nineteen." Charity, Eliza, Marianne-women, he thought. All these women, interrupting a man's need to act. All these women taking their lives, their desires, into their own hands. All these women-women he loved-living in a world where their choices were set at such a low value. And here was a man who had wronged-was currently in the process of wronging-all three of them. His choice would make up for their lack of choice, wouldn't it? Fight fire with fire-that's best. Isn't it? _Isn't it?_

"Twenty."

Christopher Brandon turned. Aimed. And as always, hit his target.


	8. Hurt

Today's song, kids: "Hurt," by Nine Inch Nails

The dead clump of leaves, along with the branch they clung to, dislodged and came crashing down at Willoughby's feet. The younger man's bullet emerged noisily from his pistol as an afterthought, flying far afield of Brandon's person. Willoughby collapsed to his knees and began shaking, sobbing. Brandon watched him without expression for a few moments. Willoughby collected himself, looked up, and gave Brandon a shaky, malevolent grin. "I see you missed."

"I didn't miss," Brandon grimaced.

"Well, it's obvious you did," Willoughby said. "Maybe you need to remember your spectacles next time."

"I'm done with you, sir. Please leave me and mine alone. If you refuse to do your duty by Miss Williams, then I advise you to stay away from her. If I ever hear of your actions threatening to harm another young lady, rest assured I will ruin you in her eyes forever." Brandon dusted the pistol against the outside of his thigh and blew the smoke away from the barrel before handing it back to John, who patted him grimly on the shoulder.

"A young lady named Marianne Dashwood, for instance? You really think this posturing is going to convince me to give her up? You sad, sad man. You need to abandon ship. She will never look at you with anything but contempt, no matter what you say to her. You really think she'll believe you over me? I've got her in thrall. She looks at me exactly like your bastard girl did. You know what? After all this, I'm looking forward to our wedding bed even more. Both to taste her honey, and to think of how I've unmanned you twice over. Now go home and pout about it, you irrelevant fool."

Musel had sauntered up to Brandon and John and now began to try muscling them back towards their carriage. John grappled with him.

"Willoughby, please tell your trussed-up gorilla here to unhand us."

The large man's eyes flared up with rage at the insult, and he and John began to tussle in earnest. Willoughby laughed from a safe distance. Brandon, energy still coursing through his body, gripped the back of Musel's coat and hurled him miraculously off of John's writhing body, and then his arm pulled back and he levelled a punch at Musel's sturdy stomach that nevertheless caused the large man to double over. (It also may have broken a knuckle or two of Brandon's hand, but that could be dealt with later.) "John, get to the carriage," Brandon said, and then Musel, vengeance on his mind, unhooked a small knife from his boot.

Brandon suddenly felt a piercing, blinding pain in his left upper thigh, a pain that immobilized him.

"Musel," Willoughby's voice purred. "Stop playing. We need to be getting back. Although I can't see what damage you caused him, it looks like he won't be bothering about Marianne Dashwood in the future, will he?"

"I was aiming for his prick but couldn't find it," Musel replied in heavily-accented English and breathing hard over Brandon as he wiped the bloody knife on the grass and shoved it back in his boot. "Which is probably what every woman who's ever bedded him has complained of, as well."

"Now, now. There'll be time for jokes when we're back in Mayfair. Let's go." And the prig and the behemoth alighted the carriage and rode off.

John's face had somehow manifested itself above Brandon's, but the wounded man was in shock and couldn't remember when. "Chris. Chris. Are you able to speak? What did he do?"

"I-I think I will...be…"

And that was the last thing Brandon remembered before he woke up in his own bed in Greenwich.


	9. The Professor

Musical selection for today: "The Professor," by Damien Rice.

When Brandon awoke, John was on one side of his bed, and Eliza on the other. Both of them were in conversation. Eliza's voice was thick with unshed tears.

"Who is she-this Marianne woman?"

"It's probably best if he tells you when he awakens. It's not my place."

"So he-he knows her?"

"Oh, yes. He knows her."

"What do you mean-he knows her well?"

"Perhaps not as well as he could," John answered cryptically.

Brandon blinked, stirred, and noticed a sharp pain in his leg which made him gasp.

"Shh, Chris, just relax. You're alright. But you must try not to move for a while so your leg can heal."

"Can I at least sit up straight?" he asked, his voice cracking with the dryness of his throat. His two companions propped pillows up behind his back. They had undressed him, and he felt the bandage wrapped around his leg snugly. A narrow miss, it had been. Deep, but not too wide, and avoiding any major arteries.

He looked at Eliza, an apology in his eyes. She took his hand. All was now well between them.

"I can't believe they were so dishonourable as to attack you after the duel was over."

"It was mostly Musel, not Willoughby. That damned froggy giant," John spat.

"Yes, but it sounds like Willoughby didn't discourage him." Eliza pronounced "Willoughby" instead of "Johnny," which was something, realized Brandon. She also didn't light up when his name was spoken. "Did they say anything about… me?"

Brandon opened his mouth, then closed it, then looked down at the coverlet. "Eliza, I-I don't think you want to know."

"He can't have said anything I haven't already imagined. Did he disavow Charity? Does he refuse to claim her as his own?"

"I don't really want to talk about what he-" he glanced at John, miserably.

"I'll go get us some brandy. Be back in a bit," John offered, and left the room.

"Did he say he hated me? He must hate me."

"He is a fool. He said horrible things. You made an escape, in my book." Brandon took a deep breath. "He seemed to think that there was a likelihood that Charity wasn't his-that you may have been with...others."

Eliza snorted indignantly and curled her legs up underneath her chin. "He really is a fool. A damned fool." She didn't speak for a minute at least. "I wasn't, you know. With others. He was the only one. I'm not so uncareful as that."

"I know that, Eliza. I didn't believe him."

"But what if I had been? Would it have mattered to you? Or would you have disowned me?" this she said in a small voice.

Brandon took his time to answer. "I still loved your mother, you know. For years. After she…"

"She fell to the same fate."

"Yes."

"And you loved her even though she was damaged?"

"It wasn't her fault. It was in part mine. If I had been stronger, more capable of withstanding my father's will-she and I could have been happy together, and she never would have...fallen. She was tempted, and her will was not as strong as-"

"As mine?" She exhaled. "I wanted Johnny-Willoughby. I wanted him so badly. It was my will that got me into this mess." She smiled bitterly, a few tears finally falling. "It wasn't all his idea, you know. It was mine, too. It was wrong, I suppose. But I made a decision, in the fullness of reason and without any force or coaxing." She sighed. "It's not fair. You men-you get to live in the world, mostly as you please, and damn the consequences. We women have to be so careful, to act as if we don't care what you think or what you do, as long as you love us and protect us. But the second we take a step towards our own desires..."

Brandon nodded. "It isn't fair. You're right."

"So you didn't shoot him-after all this. Why?"

"Because he wasn't mine to shoot, really." Brandon glanced over at the pistols, laid on the dressing table at the other end of the room in what must have been a hurry to get him into bed. "He's yours. If you want to shoot him, the gun's there. Take it. You remember I taught you to aim. You're not a bad shot. Kill him until he's quite dead, if you please."

"I don't want to shoot him." Eliza's tears had dried, and she was staring out the window. "I don't want to marry him, either. Not anymore."

"Wise."

John came back into the room with two brandies and a glass of white wine (it would help the baby calm down later, he had been told by Mrs. Bhatt, if Eliza had some wine; she didn't complain, and took it).

The three of them sat and talked a bit longer. They discussed Eliza's plans for the future (she would go to one of Brandon's empty properties at Delaford, a cottage about two miles away from his mansion, and would be looked after, along with her baby, as often as Brandon could do so), and Brandon's plans for the future (he would deliver Eliza to her new home as soon as she and the baby could travel, and then, he supposed return to London for the Season, and beyond that, fuck if he or anyone else knew, but it was something to talk about). John had to take his leave and go back to Barton, or Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Middleton would be beside themselves, not knowing what was keeping him. They all settled on a nebulous-enough answer to that question for him to bring back to Barton before was packed up into his own carriage and shuttled off. Brandon half-heartedly promised to visit as soon as it was plausible. He didn't really want to go back to Barton any time soon-and yet, of course he did, but he didn't know if he could stand the agony of seeing _her_ again-but again, it was something to talk about.

Finally, after a light tea in Brandon's room in which John asked a million times if Brandon was sure he'd be alright, and Eliza was sure she could take care of him until he healed, John was departed and Brandon and Eliza were left alone.

Eliza wasted no time. As soon as she saw John's carriage drive away she asked, "So, who is she?"

"Who?"

"You were raving when John brought you to the house. 'Marianne,' you kept saying over and over. Who is she? Is she Johnny's-Willoughby's-"

"Yes." Brandon cut her off. "She is." He rolled slightly to one side. "I should probably get some rest."

"Not until you tell me-you know her? You said you know Willoughby. You know this-this _person-_ "she said this word in a derogatory voice-"this woman who is somehow more interesting than I am?"

"Eliza-perhaps it doesn't matter. I think-I think Willoughby would not have married you anyway. His intentions toward you were never honourable."

"And yet you seem to think that his intentions towards _her_ are? Is she blindingly rich or something?"

"Well-no. Not exactly."

"Is it that I'm a bastard?" Eliza asked directly.

"I don't know-maybe? Listen-I know this is difficult for you to understand-at this point. Your heart is broken. You half-love him and half-hate him. But one day, hopefully soon, you'll realize that you're worth more than an hundred Willoughbys."

"Even though I'm a bastard, and have a bastard of my own. I'm worth nothing, and you know it. No man in his right mind would ever marry me. And perhaps that's for the best." Eliza was pensive. "Maybe I'll just be alone, with Charity, and lock her up in a convent until she's five-and-twenty, and then betroth her to you."

"By which time I'll be so old I'll have to be wheeled into church, you know, and say my vows through false teeth." Brandon smirked. "Someone will love you, and marry you. Someone worth your time. Anyone worthy of you would see what they had in you and want to marry you. Charity and all."

"You wouldn't," Eliza smirked back.

"That's because I still have fond memories of the time you were sick all over my best regimentals. And the time you bit me when I wouldn't let you stay up past bedtime. Not exactly fodder for a titillating marriage, do you think?"

"Perhaps not." She smiled at him. "You know I wish you were my real father, Colonel."

"As do I." He smiled back, wincing a bit as he felt his leg throb. "Could you please-I could maybe use another brandy?"

"I'm right on it." She rang for Mrs. Bhatt, who almost instantaneously appeared with a fresh beverage. The two women shuffled around with the glasses and trays from tea, Mrs. Bhatt insisting that Eliza leave the room momentarily while she checked the Colonel's bandage, and then disappearing again.

"So," Eliza continued as if they'd never changed the subject. "At least tell me she's ugly. Like, hideously ugly."

"Who?" Brandon demurred.

"This Marianne person. At least tell me she's covered in warts, or something."

"Would that make you feel better?"

"She's not, then, is she?"

"No, she's not covered in warts."

"Is she pretty, then?"

"Well, I don't-you know I'm not a judge of these things."

"Yes, I know you're a confirmed old bachelor, but just think for a minute. Is she dark or fair?"

Brandon's brows furrowed. "Somewhere in the middle, I suppose."

"Is her hair red?"

"No-I guess it's brown. Brownish red? Is that a color?" He'd seen it caught in the sunlight, looking for all the world as if it were pure copper, and he'd wanted to bury his hands in it and kiss every strand. He kept that to himself.

"Alright. Is her hair straight? Or are there curls?"

"Curls."

"Ah. And what of her personality? Is she meek, like I used to be?"

"No."

"Well?"

"She's… some would call her abrasive at times. She's a woman who knows her own mind."

"Ah. Of course. Willoughby likes women like that. Or at least he thinks he does. And what does she like? Painting? Dancing?"

"I think she's fond of dancing." He paused. "She's quite fond of playing."

"Is she any good?"

"Superb. Like-" Brandon stopped himself. He'd been about to say that she played like an angel. "Like someone with much more formal training than she possesses."

"Not as well as you?" Brandon had trained extensively in his youth, even harboured secret dreams of playing professionally, before his father had flattened his fantasy after his mother had died and told him that it was out of the question for a family like the Brandons to be so dishonoured.

"Better, probably. She plays with real feeling for the piece. She gets...inside it, somehow."

"Who are her favorite composers?"

"I think she prefers Mozart to most anyone."

"Better than Bach?" Eliza looked scandalized. "That must annoy you."

"I've come around to Mozart in my old age. He's more intriguing than I gave him credit for."

"And does she read, or just sit there?"

"I've seen her read, I think."

"What authors?"

"Shakespeare, Milton...Cowper...Burns…"

"Oh, Burns! I love Burns! And Cowper! God, what's not to like about this girl?"

"One wonders," Brandon answered, his voice shaking. She didn't seem to notice.

"I think I hate her. I have successfully transferred my hatred onto someone else, other than Johnny. Aren't you proud of me?"

"I suppose," Brandon replied, still unnerved by the conversation. He studied his hands.

"Tell me you hate her too, and we can hate her together. I need a compatriot in my loathing."

Brandon looked up at her. "I hate her," he said. The lie came out roughly, as if it had been scratched and scraped on its way past his vocal chords, and hung in the air with jagged edges.

Eliza glanced up sharply. She narrowed her eyes at him, and he looked at the wallpaper. New glue would need to be applied soon in this room, he mused. A corner was peeling off. _Please stop looking at me. Please._

"Does she at least take gobs of milk and sugar in her tea, like a spoiled child?"

"She takes just one sugar, and a splash of milk," he replied, hoping to move the conversation along to something more benign.

"My God," Eliza whispered. "You love her."

Brandon was stunned into silence. He imagined what it would feel like to peel the wallpaper off the corner of the wall. Would it rip? Would it come off smoothly? Oh, God, she was right. He was exposed, hopeless. "Yes." It came out as a whisper-harsh, but this time ringing of truth.

"I cannot believe it," Eliza put her head in her hands, then picked it up again and began berating him. "This woman-come around to ruin my life, and yours, too, I might remind you, for now you are saddled with a tarnished reputation by default of your connexion with me and my actions. And you go and fall in love with her! You and Johnny! She must be utter perfection! And what am I? I used to think I was somewhat attractive, not ugly, at least, but where are we women to go, how are we to catch husbands at all, when there are Mariannes at every turn! 'Just one sugar and a splash of milk,' my arse! Now I really do hate her," she finished.

"I didn't mean to...to become interested in her," Brandon said quietly. "I had no idea it would come to this. My...notice of her...it goes back several months. Before I knew anything of your predicament."

"How old is she?"

"Oh. I think...erm…"

"Is she as young as Willoughby?"

"I'm not sure exactly… but I think...she is perhaps seventeen or eighteen."

"Ugh! Colonel Christopher Brandon! She is my age!"

"You are sixteen."

"Close enough! Are there no women of five-and-thirty to tempt you?"

"I-it's not something I-I didn't intend to-" he sighed. "I've not been looking for a wife, as you know. I'm not comparing her to any other women. I...I only see her."

"You've never been in love with anyone, not since my mother! And she-" Eliza was overcome. "You always used to say that nothing but a miracle could tempt you to marry, after her."

"I did say that. It was probably true."

"But that doesn't change anything?"

"Marianne...Miss Marianne Dashwood, that is her name...she is not going to marry me. For that is the whole reason we're here, isn't it? She's to marry Mr. Willoughby. It's not set in stone yet, but… none of this matters." Brandon was miserable.

"But why? Why do you love her? I understand why Willoughby loves her. If she's beautiful enough to catch your attention, she must be enough for his lust. But you're...I don't think you're like him. Are you? I always thought… I always thought you'd loved my mother for more than just beauty."

"I did. Your mother was sweet, and light-hearted, and spirited. I loved her with my whole heart."

"So?" Eliza demanded. "Why Marianne? You called her abrasive. Surely you couldn't love someone whom you found abrasive?"

"She-" he thought carefully about how to say what he needed to say. "There is something in the way she speaks, and looks-when she is very interested in something. I cannot describe it." He closed his eyes, and thought of her playing, and envisioned her animated expression when she was onto a new idea, or an old idea that caught her imagination. He saw, in his mind's eye, the way she leaned forward, eyes rapt, mouth pursed, a single eyebrow raised, thinking deeply before springing into action with a response. The smile that just touched her lips when she listened to something that intrigued her. The careful, graceful way her hands manipulated the various objects of her daily life-sheet music, samplers, tea cups. The tendency she had of leaning to one side against pieces of furniture and doorframes, lost in thought, one hip jutting out, looking like something his hand might ought to rest on. The balance she constantly struck between true depth of feeling and frankness of expression. The magnetism of her full lips. "She is just… very engaged with the world, in a way that seems like it might...I don't know…"

"She compliments you," Eliza suddenly understood, and she was right. "She fills a place in you that is empty."

"She takes my breath from me," he confessed, his eyes finally betraying the full measure of his emotion. "I cannot breathe sufficiently when she is in the room, and yet when she is gone it seems as though there is no reason for breathing anyway."

"Oh," she replied.

They were silent for a while. Then Eliza started. "My God, Colonel. I didn't know."

"What?"

"That's why you wanted to fight Johnny."

He shook his head. "I wanted to fight Jo-Willoughby," he corrected himself, "because he did wrong by you."

"And she didn't have anything to do with it?"

"Do you really think she'd have suddenly looked at me as a lover if I'd harmed hers?"

"So, is that why you didn't shoot him, after all?"

"No. I told you why I didn't shoot him."

"But now I know-you must have had so many reasons to want to."

"Yes." He breathed, sipped his brandy. "So many."

"And you let him go...for me...and for her."

"Yes." He reached up and cupped her chin in his hand. "I love you too, Eliza, you know. You are the daughter I never had for my own. I couldn't have harmed someone you loved."

"Or someone she loved."

"Or that." Brandon sighed.

Eliza asked, "She's never given you a reason to think she might be interested in you?"

"Not one. I thought for a while I could woo her, talk to her about music, books, things we both liked… make her see me as an option, but…"

"I guess Willoughby came along and spoilt it."

"You'd be correct," he affirmed bitterly.

"He is insufferably charming."

"Quite." Brandon finished the remaining four or five swallows of his drink.

"Well, we're in quite a pickle. We two comprise a regular Greek tragedy of heartbreak and disillusionment. Maybe now I could finally convince you to read _Werther_.

Brandon made a face. A couple of years ago, Eliza had begged him to read her favorite book, _The Sorrows of Young Werther_ , which had gained quite a bit of fame when people began to commit suicide over love lost in imitation of its hero. Brandon had held out, thinking it sounded morbid. "You want to drive me to my death?"

"No. Just make you feel less alone in your feelings."

He gave her a skeptical glance. "Maybe."

"You know what? I've decided. Willoughby is just a man. And this Dashwood girl is just a woman. Let's be resolved to end this tragic moping once and for all. I'll start." She put her hand over her heart. "I resolve from this point forth no longer to be in love with John Willoughby. Now you."

"Eliza-"

"Say it."

"No. Eliza-I can't choose whom I love. It's...no one can."

"But you can try to forget her."

"I can, I suppose."

"So try. Try to forget her. And we'll be old bachelors together at Delaford. Me in my cottage. You in the big house, coming to visit Charity whenever you please. She can call you grandfather, if you want. Don't be heartbroken. Please."

"I'll try," he offered.

Soon afterward she left him to sleep, the brandy having worked its way into his system, his mind and body both exhausted.

In the following weeks, they orchestrated Eliza's removal to Delaford. Brandon's leg healed, although it left a scar (not unusual, for Brandon had accumulated many over the years). Once he was well enough to move about like his normal self, they packed all of Eliza's trunks, visited a few shops in London to secure a few necessities for Charity and packed those too, and finally loaded all-mother, daughter, and accoutrements-into a carriage bound for Dorsetshire. Brandon took his horse Othello, who had been brought to him in Greenwich, and rode alongside the carriage the whole way, taking an easy two days to ride and stopping at an inn midway for the first night of the journey. He stayed at Delaford a week to make sure that Eliza and her child were settled in at the cottage, and to put some affairs with the estate in order, and to answer and write several letters. Then, Eliza convinced him to go back to Town. Though he would rather have spent the whole year at Delaford, as he was wont to do, Eliza laboriously convinced him that Town, and the Season which was about to begin, would provide much needed forgetfulness amid a flurry of activity. So he saddled Othello and rode back to humour her, although in reality he expected nothing but further frustration and loneliness.


	10. Gimme Something Good

Musical selection: "Gimme Something Good," by Ryan Adams

Brandon's experience in the month after he returned from Delaford was largely dull: dinners with the Palmers, whom he had learned were now in town; meetings with his solicitor to sign paperwork relating to the letting of the cottage to Eliza; long afternoons spent in conversation with his bookseller and with the dealer who suggested new sheet music; rarely, attendance at parties and salons to which he had been invited and at which he felt sure of conversation with his few real friends in town; more commonly, avoidance of parties that he knew would be full of the frivolous sort of people he couldn't take right now, instead curling up in the great big chair in the study at Anders Grove, reading old books and the newspaper and feeling that the world had never been such a dark place, and that middle age, having finally descended on him, had made him cynical. In all honesty, some days he didn't get out of his bed until past noon, and Mr. and Mrs. Bhatt would worry that he had taken sick. On those days he would finally get up and walk a few laps around a nearby park, coming back for a light tea-generally his only meal anymore-of cauliflower curry or daal.

Finally, Mrs. Bhatt cornered him. He was taking tea in the back garden-he had never taken off his dressing gown, and the tea had gotten cold. He was covered in biscuit crumbs. He had a book of Shakespeare's sonnets dangling from two fingers, and his head in the clouds. "Colonel."

"Yes, Mrs. Bhatt."

"You cannot stay thus any longer. You must get out of this house."

"Am I being ordered around in my own home?"

"You look like an invalid, or a madman" She gestured to his dressing gown. "You cannot carry on thus."

"I'm carrying on perfectly well, thank you."

"You're in London for the Season, and yet you never leave to attend any events. You missed the Brahms concert yesterday. It was the one thing you had spoken of doing this week with an expression that was anything less than dour."

He hadn't attended-a last-minute decision-because he remembered, as he thought on the works of the composer, that one of Marianne's favorite pieces was of his making. "Dour? Your English is improving."

"And your hygiene is weakening. When did you last shave?"

"Alright, Mrs. Bhatt. What can I do to please you? Since you find me lacking."

"You can answer one of these letters, and take up someone's invitation to dine. And get out of the house." She proffered a pile of mail.

So, Brandon decided on his old friends the Palmers, and shaved finally, and dressed like a human adult male-no biscuit crumbs in sight.

There were several interesting people in attendance at the dinner-including a young woman who was as yet a stranger to Brandon, a Miss Emma Woodhouse, who was at first attractive and intriguing enough to make him lean into her conversation, until he learned that she was a self-avowed lifelong bachelorette, and a bit of a busybody in the making. It was during this otherwise pleasant dinner that his heart nearly stopped beating.

"Did you hear that the Misses Dashwood are come to town with my mother? Such lovely girls. Although I daresay the middle sister, Marianne, is a bit too Romantical for my liking, on the whole. So much in a state of constant moping or fawning. Think you we shall see them soon, Palmer?" Charlotte chirped.

"Aren't they your particular friends?" Palmer directed to Brandon, slicing into his mutton. "I heard John say something about you having an interest-"

"I know them a little," Brandon cut him off, his collar feeling tight suddenly. "We dined together often at Barton."

"I should find it so very diverting if we were to run into them at my mother's house!"

"Indeed." Palmer turned his attention to the state of Parliament, drowning out his wife's buoyant exuberance with stately gravity undercut with dark humor.

He must see the Dashwoods, he reflected upon his ride home. It was useless to pretend he could avoid them without making himself sick with anxiety. He must see _her_. He needed to know if she was lost forever-not only lost to him, but lost to herself, possibly entangling herself permanently with a man who didn't really love her the way she should be loved. He remembered the life Eliza had lived, married for money, loveless, and ultimately drowned in the sea of her own despair. He knew Marianne could fall to the same fate.

The very next morning, he resolved to visit them. He rose at a human hour and dressed with meticulous care (much to the delight of Mr. and Mrs. Bhatt), and made his way into Mayfair to Mrs. Jennings' apartments. His heart was in his mouth as he was announced, and he walked into the room. For good or for ill-my God! he would see her. He would get to look at her face, and remember again why life was so good.

The door was opened, and there she was-the most beautiful, vibrant woman he had ever seen. Her eyes lit up with sheer glee at the sight of him, her lips parted in anticipation. And she began to rush towards him-then checked himself when he stepped further in the doorway and the sun, which had been at his back and cast him in silhouette, revealed his true form. When her face fell from such heights to notice that it was he-and not, as she probably hoped, Willoughby-the Colonel felt his heart clatter painfully against his ribs, as if it were physically breaking. Again. Into how many pieces can one soul shatter?

Marianne said nothing. No hint of her delicate, sweet voice. She simply bowed, and tears filled her eyes as she backed out of the room and out of sight.

Brandon realized his eyes had been following her mournfully, and he tried to save face. It was probably useless. Elinor was a good judge of character, and most likely knew his feelings already. He cleared his throat. "Is your sister ill?

"Yes-she seems to have low spirits and complain of fatigue and headache quite frequently of late. I cannot think why she is so distraught."

"I'm so very sorry to hear that." He cast about for something, anything else, to say. He felt his despair etched into his own face, felt himself aging more by the minute. They talked of the weather, of the Middletons and Mrs. Jennings, of the promised delights of the Season, of Delaford, and of the length of his stay in Town. It dawned on him-Marianne's rudeness, her outright abhorrence of his presence, ought to be enough to make him loathe her, forget her, and move on. But all he felt was anguish.

Suddenly Mrs. Jennings descended upon him, shouting, "Oh Colonel! I am monstrous glad to see you - sorry I could not come before - beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to settle with. Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner! But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town to-day?"

"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been dining."

"Oh! you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."

"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow."

"Aye, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two young ladies with me, you see - that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere. Your friend Miss Marianne, too - which you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr. Willoughby will do between you about her. Aye, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very handsome - worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has been dead these eight years and better. But, Colonel, where have you been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come, come, let's have no secrets among friends."

He hemmed and hawed, explaining vaguely that he had business to attend to with regard to his estate. Elinor made tea as he spoke. And, though his back was to the door into the hallway and he could not see what was happening there, it was visceral the way his breathing hitched when a new presence made itself felt. _She_ was behind him. She was re-entering the room. He knew it without even looking in her direction, the way his best bitch knew without fault when there was a squirrel or cat within a quarter mile of her.

He didn't speak, instead letting Mrs. Jennings lead the conversation. She tried tempting Marianne to be cheerful, talking to her and Elinor of the parties they'd attend, the new dress each they'd have made, how nice certain gentlemen must find it when ladies were displayed so elegantly in the finest new London fashions… and, half-listening to the conversation, he watched her surreptitiously, glancing up every other minute or so.

She had been crying recently, he knew, based on the redness around her eyes. _Willoughby is involved. Did he make her cry, too? I will murder him in his bed._ She looked pale, and he noticed the way her pink dress hung off her figure somewhat. She'd been skipping meals. So had he, so they were a matched pair, weren't they? Her mouth, usually so certain of the cleverness and correctness of the words it would say, turned down in a frown, and quivered a bit at each reply she gave to one of Mrs. Jennings' inquiries. Her flawless hands were clasped firmly in her lap, grasping her skirt, knuckles white.

"Perhaps you'd like to play for us a bit, Miss Marianne?" Mrs. Jennings asked, gesturing to the small pianoforte in the room's corner. "That ought to bring a smile to _several_ people in the room."

"I-Mrs. Jennings, forgive me," she said, her teeth seeming to clench as she spoke. "I am not disposed to play at present."

"Ah, well, then, Colonel Brandon, perhaps you would like to play for us? Our girls here have not yet had the pleasure of hearing you play for them. Now is your opportunity. Did you know, Miss Marianne, that Colonel Brandon was once considered very gifted?"

"Mrs. Jennings, I also am...not disposed to play. Not at the moment. Perhaps next time."

"Oh, is it your rheumatism bothering you again?" Marianne asked him. _She cuts me to the core_. "We should perhaps add a log to the fire, Mrs. Jennings. The Colonel won't want to be so cold."

"No, it's-that is to say, I would prefer the pleasures of conversation at present. My playing could in no way improve our party."

"Oh, well, just as well," Mrs. Jennings said, and proceeded to chatter on. It wasn't long before Marianne took advantage of a lull in the conversation to excuse herself, claiming she had a letter to finish writing. She stood, as did Colonel Brandon, and she walked over to him and extended her hand. As he shook her hand (so soft! so warm!), he looked into her eyes. What he saw there was a look of half agony, and half hope. As one would look who been haunted by the ghost of someone she loved.

The nail on the coffin came a few days later. Brandon had recovered after leaving Mrs. Jennings' townhouse by spending the following two whole days in bed, having gone to a bookseller across town from his typical one and, embarrassed, purchased a copy of _The Sorrows of Young Werther_. He hated himself as he read it, and hated the book even more, and hated Marianne too-no, he couldn't bring himself to hate her. Finally, his stomach and heart empty of all but bile, he called on the Palmers again, and there took tea, and Mrs. Palmer-looking for all the world like a great pumpkin in an orange-patterned gown with her belly protruding-said, "I hear that Miss Marianne Dashwood is engaged to Mr. John Willoughby."

The Colonel nearly dropped his scone into his teacup. "Oh? What good news."

"Yes! And after all their chasing after one another. My ladies' organization at church have all been gossiping about it, Willoughby being so eligible a bachelor and all, and I have it from Mrs. Middleton that he has a lock of her hair"-Brandon knew that already-"and that she has been writing to him"-this was new-"and that it is now certain beyond a doubt that they have formed an official attachment. When I luncheoned with my mother yesterday she confirmed my suspicions, and said she doubted it not. And we shall all have a wedding to attend in the Spring, for certainly we all shall be invited. Don't you love weddings, Colonel?"

"Colonel Brandon would probably rather put out his own eyes than attend another wedding, if he's anything like me," Palmer quipped. "How about it, Brandon? Can you imagine a less diverting way to spend a day in which you could otherwise be fishing or hunting?"

Brandon answered something polite so that both of them were satisfied and he had insulted no one. The two of them bickered gently, and Brandon gripped the arms of his chair to try to hold himself together. Soon it was imperative that he excuse himself.

He reported to his club several blocks away, had a drink and a moment to think, and then promptly walked out and in the direction of Mrs. Jennings' house once more. He hadn't planned on calling there today, or even the rest of the week, for he couldn't stand to see _her_ in a state of agitation and be able to do nothing. But plans had changed. He made his entrance into the townhouse, his legs heavy as lead as he marched up the steps. It was not going to be a pleasant visit. But he had to know for himself.

As he announced himself to the footman and was shown to the drawing room, he noticed that the man was carrying a pile of letters to post, topmost a letter with the name "Willoughby" elegantly scripted on the envelope. It was in Marianne's hand.

Marianne was not in the room when he arrived. He was glad of that. He could never have put such a question to her. He looked at her sister, Elinor, who pleasantly greeted him, and he said, "I take it I am to congratulate you on acquiring a new brother." Elinor looked quizzically at him, and he clarified, "your sister's engagement to Mr. Willoughby is very generally known."

"It cannot be generally known," returned Elinor, "for her own family do not know it."

His heart gave a painful, hopeful leap. "I beg your pardon, I am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but I had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of."

"How can that be? By whom can you have heard it mentioned?"

"By many - by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate - Mrs. Jennings, Mrs. Palmer, and the Middletons. But still I might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if I had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to Mr. Willoughby in your sister's writing. I came to inquire, but I was convinced before I could ask the question. Is everything finally settled? Is it impossible to - ?"

He paused. He knew that with each passing moment would make Elinor, and anyone else she might relate this conversation to, even more certain that he was obviously infatuated with Marianne. He continued, "but I have no right, and I could have no chance of succeeding. Excuse me, Miss Dashwood. I believe I have been wrong in saying so much, but I hardly know what to do, and on your prudence I have the strongest dependence. Tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt - that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains."

Elinor gazed on him with pity, and patted his hand. She told him in no uncertain terms that, though the formalities of the attachment were not apprised to her, she had no doubt that the pair were, indeed, as he had supposed, to be married eventually. All signs pointed to it.

Fuck everything. He grasped for something to say. "To your sister I wish all imaginable happiness." He added, "to Willoughby... that he may endeavour to deserve her." - Not good enough. There was nothing else for him to say. Nothing to say. Nothing. He took his leave, and went away, his heart wrenched and wrung out dry.

That night, he did the only thing he could think of that would make him feel even marginally sane. He drank half a bottle of scotch, pounded out the notes to his favorite fugues on the pianoforte in his drawing room, and tried his best to forget her eyes and hands and hair and face. Sometime in the evening, he found he had wandered out onto the balcony looking back on the garden behind the house, where it was raining, and he was wrested back into the house by a terrified Bhatt, who took the now-rain-filled glass of scotch forcibly from his hands, shoved him into the bedchamber and made him strip off his wet clothes and put on dry ones, before nudging him under the covers of his warm bed. When he woke up the next morning, the pain in his head was almost strong enough to make him forget about everything else.

Pain yielded. The extreme chastisement of the Bhatts, plus Brandon's own discomfiture at his having fallen to extreme melancholy, aided in his putting aside the bottle. It wasn't going to solve anything anyway. But really, the only true healer was time, and occupation, he knew.

In the week that followed Brandon's last visit to Mrs. Jennings' house, he threw himself into every diversion he could think of, even the ones he didn't relish at first. Saturday he spent most of the day vomiting and lying about on cushions, but on Sunday, he attended church, and then wrote a long letter to Eliza, another to John, and a third to his sister in France, having a late supper with Mr. and Mrs. Bhatt at the home of their son, who had settled in Cheapside and was working as a clerk. It pleased Mrs. Bhatt immensely to have Brandon there, and she and her husband smiled so to see him making an honest effort. Monday, he got up early and wrote to the curate of the parish at Delaford, whose retirement had just been announced, to ask for recommendations for a replacement; he then went through his small library at Anders Grove and methodically catalogued everything so he could find titles later, pulling from the shelves and setting aside some volumes he wanted to read soon. On Tuesday, he attended a play with Palmer and stayed out late arguing about politics at his club afterwards, arriving back in Greenwich in the wee hours. Not to fall back into old habits, he got up early again on Wednesday and breakfasted with his old music teacher, an elderly man who nevertheless recommended Brandon several new charts to look up for his music library. He spent most of Wednesday night at his club again, where Bingley and Darcy made up a foursome at whist with him and another man of the name Tilney, a guest of Bingley's. On Thursday he attended a fashionable party and danced every dance with a different young woman, and made acquaintance with several more. He realized with a start that six or seven of the women with whom he danced seemed to look at him with genuine interest, and two or three openly flirted with him. His face warmed at the knowledge that he was, in fact, capable of gaining a woman's attention. He thought of acting on this-of calling on two or three of the most attractive women he'd met and seeing what came of it. But he knew this would only be an attempt to replace _her_ on whom his heart, no matter the hopelessness of the situation, was set. He would wait until he was more fully healed before trying to gratify his need to be wanted, or further pain would only ensue.

Friday, Brandon had some business to take care of with his solicitor, and took the opportunity while he was out to call upon his stationer, Mr. Perkins, in Pall Mall, and have new calling cards made, for the flurry of socialization he was now newly committed to. While he was browsing the selection, he heard the bell over the door ring, and two women entered. Neither were particularly remarkable or noticeable at first. They asked, as it was about to rain, if they might be allowed to wait within the doorway for their carriage, and the stationer acquiesced. His nose buried in different samples of cardstock, he couldn't help but overhear their conversation-and then, he was riveted.

"-that Mrs. Heape's party was such a success, it's a wonder Mrs. Greenleaf doesn't give up her idea of party-giving entirely."

"Yes, her guest lists are always dull, and it isn't fair to compare her to Mrs. Heape, although Mrs. Greenleaf is so much more sedate, which is nice when one is tired and wants to spend a quiet evening in the company of middle-aged bankers and women who bring their knitting."

"Quite. I for one love a good and raucous party. Gets the blood pumping. Speaking of which, did you see Miss Grey recently? I've was hearing of her new beau at Lady Driscoll's soiree last evening, which was very crowded, but the music was excellent."

"Yes, have you not heard? Miss Grey is engaged to him! His name is Mr. John Willoughby of Allenham, in Devonshire. He's got another house called Combe Magna, somewhere, as well, and quite a reputation for being very dashing and handsome. It seems a good match, does it not?"

"Too lovely! And is the wedding to be soon?"

"Quite soon! Two weeks! It's been a great secret while all the arrangements have been made, but it's finally happening. I am all excitement!"

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Perkins!"

At this point, their carriage arrived, and the two ladies exited the shop. Brandon was cognizant of nothing but his heartbeat, which was pounding so loud that he didn't hear the shopkeep ask if he was ready to make his selection. Three or four of the samples had fallen to the floor. Brandon ignored them, overstepped them, and strode up to the desk to grip the edge as he asked, "Perkins, who were those ladies? Did you know them?"

"Ah, yes. Mrs. Ellison was the elder, and Mrs. Harper the younger. Why do you ask?"

"Are they customers?"

"Yes, they are. Do you know them?"

"No, but-can I ask a favor of you?"

"Of course, sir."

"Can you tell me what is the relationship between Mrs. Ellison and a Miss Grey? Do you know it?"

"Well...let me see…" The man took some time and opened a few of the books he kept behind the desk, searching for past orders. "It seems that she has ordered some monogrammed paper for a young woman named Grey, her...her ward, I believe. Yes. The girl came in with her. Quite lovely young thing."

"Thank you." Brandon kept himself composed. Preparing his face for the outside world was the easy part, anymore. The hard part was keeping his inner self calm and composed, so that he felt the same peace and poise that the rest of the world saw when they looked at him. He ordered his cards, promised to come back within the week when they were printed, paid in advance, and left.

Immediately he walked to Mayfair, his feet doing all the thinking. Was it true?

They were dining, when he arrived. He hadn't thought-but of course, it was time for tea, and he offered to wait. But the servant showed him in anyway, and he cast about, feeling lost, until his eyes alit on Mrs. Jennings and Elinor, and no sign of _her_.

Mrs. Jennings rose to shake his hand, whispered something to Elinor, and then excused herself. He and Elinor were alone again.

"Marianne-That is-Miss Marianne-is she-" he stopped himself and started over. "Is your sister improved at all?" He couldn't believe the awkwardness of having made it clear, again, of his love for _her_. Was he capable of starting a conversation with anyone in any other way than by asking about Marianne Dashwood's well-being?

"Marianne is not well," Elinor answered. "She has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed." She rested her forehead on her hand as she said this, as if she were greatly exhausted.

He haltingly said, "Perhaps, then, what I heard this morning may be true - there may be more truth in it than I could believe possible at first."

"What did you hear?" she looked up at him sharply.

"That a gentleman, whom I had reason to think - in short, that a man, whom I _knew_ to be engaged - but how shall I tell you? If you know it already, as surely you must, I may be spared."

"You mean Mr. Willoughby's marriage with Miss Grey. Yes, we _do_ know it all." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "This seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us. Mr. Willoughby is unfathomable! Where did you hear it?"

"In a stationer's shop in Pall Mall, where I had business." He told Elinor the story of his morning, and then took a deep breath. This revelation had taken a lot out of him.

She asked if he thought Miss Grey's wealth-apparently to the tune of fifty thousand pounds-likely accounted for Willoughby's abandonment of her sister.

"It may be so; but Willoughby is capable - at least I think" - what could he say? Again, nothing. So Marianne knew. _Oh, God. What must her feelings now be? And I am worthless to comfort her. My girl, my girl, I wish you could hear my silent prayer for your comfort._ "And your sister - how did she - "

"Her sufferings have been very severe. I have only to hope that they may be proportionably short. It has been, it is a most cruel affliction. Till yesterday, I believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps - but _I_ am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her. He has been very deceitful! and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."

"Ah!" said Colonel Brandon. _If only you knew_. "There is, indeed! But your sister does not - I think you said so - she does not consider it quite as you do?" _The poor love-blinded fool._

"You know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could."

He was invited to played cards for a bit, Mrs. Jennings having returned to the room, and they chatted of nothing-neither of them having anything useful to the other. Brandon noticed that Mrs. Jennings watched him carefully, although he didn't understand why; he also noticed that Elinor seemed more pale and drawn herself than was her wont, and worried about his friend. Was she in agony over her sister's pain, or was there some trouble of her own at play? He wanted to ask her in private-wished, not for the first time, that the idea of intimate friendship, without romantic attachment, was possible between men and women without the world looking askance. At any rate, he and Elinor carried on, not outwardly betraying their inner pain-though it was clear to him that her pain was real enough, though concealed, just like his own. What a fine soldier she would have made. What strength she possessed. Elinor Dashwood was, indeed, an admirable woman.

In the midst of these thoughts, it hit him: _Eliza_. She wouldn't know about Willoughby's engagement. And as much as he didn't relish the thought of seeing her in distress, it would be better that the news came from him than from someone with whom she had no connexion.

Upon leaving the townhouse, Colonel Brandon committed himself to returning for a week to Delaford. He needed to see if Eliza was alright, and to rest in his own home, away from all the present heartache of London's streets and people.


	11. Hallelujah

["Hallelujah"-Jeff Buckley's version, although I like Cohen's for some moments here as well.]

Brandon sat in Eliza's little parlor, watching her. Her face was in her hands. Her shoulders didn't shake, but knowing Eliza, that didn't mean she wasn't crying. He had told her of Willoughby's certain engagement suddenly, pulling no punches, and now he wondered if that had been a good idea.

But when she looked up at him, her face was dry, her eyes steel-hardened. "That is it, then."

"Yes. I wanted you to hear it from me."

"Thank you." She looked out the window for a minute. The baby was sleeping, spread out on a blanket next to her on the settee, senseless of life and its problems. Eliza looked down at her child, caressed her small round cheek softly and gently, so as not to wake her, and then stood up and reached for Brandon's hand. He got up with her, and she put her arms around him, buried her face in his chest. "I'm so sorry, Colonel," she said in a muffled voice.

"And why are you sorry?" he asked, perplexed. "It is you who have suffered a blow today."

"Yes, but-when he marries… _her…_ she will be lost to you, as he is lost to me."

"Oh-that-she is-that is to say," he pulled her away from him, and held her at arm's length. "It is not Marianne Dashwood that Willoughby is to marry."

Eliza's face brightened immediately. "No? Who, then?"

"Someone named Miss Grey. Very rich, apparently." He made a face.

"Then she is free? Free for you to court?"

"Eliza-"

"Oh, Colonel Brandon, I am so happy! You must… you must be beside yourself with happiness! And I share in it!"

"No, Eliza!" he stopped her. "No. That-that situation-is never going to happen. I'm not...I'm not for her."

Eliza looked up at him with wonder in her eyes. "But you have a new chance! You must take it! You told me yourself that you love her!"

"Yes, but she does not love me. She cannot love me." He stared at his boots.

"However could she not love you? Everyone loves you!"

"That is not true."

"All your real friends do. And you have many, you know. Many more than you know. Even Charity-Charity is a different child when you are here, already, and she is just a tiny thing." This at least was true. Charity had giggled for a solid ten minutes when Brandon had walked in to Eliza's home, grasping with tiny fingers at the collar of his jacket and reaching for his nose. "And you would be a good match for her. You're rich, and handsome-" he snorted. "And you are kind-hearted, and would be a good husband for anyone. I don't hate her anymore. I have quite forgiven her. If she is someone whom you could love-then she ought to be good enough, by my reckoning. Seize the opportunity!" she implored him.

"Let's not talk of that. Put it out of your mind. Besides, she-she is not well, just now."

"What do you mean?"

"She has taken all this very hard. I think even harder than you did. She was...quite in love with Willoughby. And I think he loved her too, Eliza. I'm sorry. I would shield you from this, if I could. I really believe that, in his own way, he...at least he thought he loved her. But he could not marry her. She had no dowry, so…"

"So she was spurned by him for the same reason he spurned me, you mean."

"I think so."

"That arse. What a waste of a person he turned out to be, after all." She paused. "So she is in a bad way?"

"I think she has been hit very hard by this. She knew, as you did, that he planned to marry her. She put all her hopes on it."

"But I had other things to worry about. Like the baby growing inside me."

"Yes. And there's something else-I think, to her, he represented more than just...just a man she loved. She lives in a world of books, and her sensibilities have largely been informed by what she reads, Eliza. I think-"

"He was her King Arthur?"

"More like her Lancelot. He-he represented something larger than just an attractive man with a comfortable income. He represented...everything...she had ever believed about love, and happiness, and maybe even purpose."

"So when he left her-"

"She has had the ground pulled out from under her. I believe her to be questioning all she has ever known or felt. She does not know where to land."

"Like it was with you and my mother?"

"Yes."

Eliza paused. She seemed to realize that he was overcome with emotion and memory, and gave him a minute before continuing. "Does she know? About Willoughby?"

"About his engagement? Yes, of course."

"No, that is not what I meant. Does she know...about me?"

Brandon started. "Eliza, of course I have not told anyone of your situation. Only John knows a thing, and you know he will never breathe a word of it."

"Then perhaps you should tell her."

He stared at her. "Tell her about you? How would that help anything?"

Eliza explained. "I am concerned-because I remember how hard it was for you-that she may go on forever loving him, without knowing. She has a right to know why he left her, and why he is undeserving. Just like I had a right to know."

"So you want-me?" he pointed at his chest, "to tell her?"

"I think it best."

"I cannot-if she heard something unwholesome about him from me, it would seem as though I had false motives. I have no wish to use this situation to draw her to me. Not that it would work, at any rate. She feels nothing for me."

"Colonel, as much as I love you, this is not about you. This is for her peace of mind. You must tell her. Or at least tell someone near her. Is her family close to you as well?"

"I-could-I suppose I could tell her sister."

"Then do it."

"But Eliza-I do not want to bring shame to you by speaking of your present condition to others."

"The damage has already been done." Eliza looked down at Charity, who had begun to stir. "If there is any way in which this sad business could be leveraged to bring someone else comfort, please use it. I trust you." She picked up the baby, who fussed a bit. "Please."

Brandon stayed for dinner, playing with Charity a while so that Eliza could get a complete meal in her without a distraction, and they talked of other things. Brandon told her of all he would need to do in his brief visit to Delaford-secure a new curate, and maybe a couple of permanent servants for Eliza's cottage since currently Jane and Peter were on loan from the inn at the village; pick up a few books from the library to occupy him while in the remainder of his season at London; ride out to exercise the horses and make sure his tenants wanted for nothing; maybe even shoot a little. The country was in his blood, more even than India had been, more by far than London could ever be. Eliza felt the same, and together they talked of how nice it was to be together, and in Dorsetshire, and at peace, whatever quality of peace it was. As he left her home, well after dark, Brandon promised one last time that he would tell Marianne Dashwood, through her sister, of how Willoughby had dishonoured Eliza, though he doubted but that it would bring her fresh heartache and would cause unnecessary attention to be directed toward Eliza's sad state. He was not a woman, Eliza was, and so therefore he deferred to her expert opinion on what a woman would need to hear, do, and believe.

When Brandon walked out of Mrs. Jennings' townhouse, the following week, he did feel as if the weight of the world had suddenly lifted off his shoulders. He had told Elinor Dashwood everything, from the true nature of his connexion with Eliza Williams, to her encounters with Willoughby, to the reason for Willoughby's sudden departure from Barton and Allenham and his need to secure immediate financial succor through marriage. He had watched Elinor's face go from trepidation to woe to concern, and at times it seemed as if the concern were directed more to him than to her sister or to Eliza. He bore all this in good stead, and plowed on through his story. He said very little about Marianne, except to suggest that perhaps this knowledge would bring her comfort. And then he took his leave. He had walked down the street towards the place where his carriage waited for him, feeling as if a duty had been done.

He spent the next couple of weeks in and out of the houses of his friends, and Mrs. Jennings' house was no exception. He observed Marianne as secretly as he could, and saw that, far from appearing comforted, she seemed even more distraught than ever. She did play a little, but every note she played was melancholy; she refrained from singing, and rarely spoke. His heart beat for her, his lungs rose and fell for her, but his arms and hands and lips could offer nothing in the way of comfort, so he was silent as well. He saw so clearly in her an echo of himself at her very same age, and wanted to assure her that life goes on, that love was-but what the hell did he know of love? He knew nothing more than that it caused him to ache in places without names, in depths without measure. Love was a country he could see from across a narrow sea, whose language he could speak, whose foods and customs he could adopt, to whose climate he was accustomed-and yet, he could not swim, had no boat, no oars, and his wings had been clipped, and so he was grounded, gazing across the sea of this parlor at a woman who had no idea that she could ease his pain, and maybe even her own, if she just gazed back.

In the course of these visits, he met the Dashwood's awful half-brother, John, and learned of their connexion to a man named Edward Ferrars, whom (it was soon revealed) was forced by his family to choose between his inheritance and a woman whom he had promised his heart and his hand. Momentarily forgetting his own troubles, he knew (for he had discovered that Ferrars desired to take orders) that he may have a way to aid in someone else's suffering. He spoke with Elinor and it was done-Ferrars, a man whom he had never met but whom everyone liked and respected, would be free to marry, and he would be able to replace his curate at last.

And at last, though the season was not quite over, the Dashwoods planned-for, as Elinor said to him privately, Marianne was not in spirits to remain in London much longer-to return to Barton via Somersetshire, where they would stop briefly with the Palmers and their new baby. Brandon was reluctantly engaged to join them there, prolonging his time away from his home-and his agony at watching his beloved break her heart anew each day with every sad song she played.


	12. Skinny Love

[Song selection: "Skinny Love," by Bon Iver, and also I'm running out of sad songs so something happy had better happen soon ;) ]

The Palmers had an acceptable library for smoking a pipe and thinking, but it was clear that Palmer was no great reader. Still, sitting here gave Brandon an opportunity to be alone.

What a clatter they made-Mrs. Palmer with the baby, Mrs. Jennings with her...self, and even Mr. Palmer, finally at home in his own element, with his raucous, almost gleeful shooting, as if being finally back in his own element and away from the London crowd had caused in him a madness which only the pull of the trigger and the felling of various fowl could calm. And Marianne-her silence was loudest of everything. Brandon needed a vacation from being a houseguest.

The library contained very little to tempt him, but he had brought a few of his own books, so he squirrelled himself away in a chair in the corner, his stockinged feet up on the opposite chair, and buried his nose in his dog-eared copy of Goldsmith's _Vicar_ , enjoying the sound of the rain pattering upon the windowpane outside and the fire crackling in the hearth on the opposite wall. He was just turning a page when the door creaked open, and his breath was arrested in his chest.

"Oh-Good afternoon, Colonel," she said.

"Miss Marianne," he murmured her name.

"Do you…" she looked discomfited, but pressed on. "Do you mind company? It's so…" she struggled for the right word, "noisy out there."

"I don't mind at all." _Now I shall not be able to read a single page. Oh, God. She smells like the rain. I could drown in her._ He lifted his legs down off the chair opposite him and crossed his legs in a more manly fashion, slipping his shoes back on his feet.

Marianne (he noticed, because he really could only pretend to read now, and had an acute awareness of her every movement) wandered from shelf to shelf, sighing in disappointment as he had done when each potential treasure trove yielded nothing of substance, until finally her eyes alighted upon the table next to him, and she tentatively glanced at the small pile of books that lay there. Upon opening the cover of the first, however, she realized that Brandon's own Delaford book plate had been pasted there, and she closed it quickly. "Oh!"

He looked up at her.

"I'm sorry-I didn't realize these were yours."

"You're welcome to look through them."

She hesitated, but then took him up on his offer. He felt, rather than saw, the corners of her lips turn up, ever so gently, as she picked up a copy of Shakespeare's _Tragedies_ , and then her frown was back in its accustomed place. The two books underneath were new to her. She looked at him. He looked up. "Yes?"

"I don't want to interrupt your reading."

"It is no trouble."

"What are these?" She gestured to the books.

"Ah. Do you read German?"

"Only a little. Not well."

"This first is Goethe. It-well, I didn't like it. _The Sorrows of Young Werther_. You might like it, though."

"That doesn't seem very complimentary," she replied, and he triumphed to see a ghost of a smile cross her face.

"I only meant that it's very much more to your taste than mine. That doesn't mean that your taste is poor. Just different. It's been a very popular book. But all the same, I don't think I would recommend it to you just now."

"Why not?"

"Because...it's very sad."

"Is this-I think I heard about this in London. Is this the book that so many people have been-have been-" She couldn't bring herself to reference the recent rash of suicides in Germany, inspired by Werther's tragic life.

"I think you have the right idea. With all your recent suffering, perhaps it would be a poor choice."

"Oh," she said. She hung her head. She seemed lost in thought for a moment. "And what is this one?" She indicated the second book.

"That one is better. Do you know Schiller?"

"Not at all. What does he write?"

"All manner of things-plays, poetry. This is _Die Raeuber_. I think it's your sort of thing. I read it, oh, fifteen years ago or so, and it still holds up."

"May I-may I borrow it?"

His voice almost broke as he answered. "You may borrow anything you like."

"What is your favourite? Book, I mean?" She perched upon the chair opposite him, thoughtlessly, and he noticed that she shivered a little. He also noticed that she was even paler than she had been, and looked drawn-it seemed like more than sadness, like perhaps she had caught cold. There was a soft afghan thrown over the chair behind him, and he offered it to her wordlessly. She took it and shivered even more deeply as she placed it over her legs.

"My favourite book?"

"Do you have one?"

"Do you? A single favourite book?"

"Yes!" she replied, " _The Mysteries of Udolpho_!"

"And how many other favourite books have you had over the years?"

She smiled, seeming to forget everything else for a moment. "You're right-so very many. But that's not fair. What do _you_ like, apart from German things?"

"I quite like Goldsmith," he held up the book in his hand. She took it from him, careful to hold her finger in the place where his marked his page, and their hands momentarily brushed together in the transfer. Brandon did not flatter himself that she stirred at the contact, but his own heart stopped beating for a second, two. She read for a minute. "I also like Voltaire, Swift, Pope… Shakespeare, of course…"

"Do you like _Don Quixote_?"

"Of course. It was my childhood favourite."

"Mine, as well. I have a difficult time picturing you as a child, Colonel." She handed him back his book, and reached for the Shakespeare. "Have you read _The Man of Feeling_?"

He confessed that he had not.

"You would like it, I think. Do you like sentimental things?"

 _You are a sentimental thing, and I am quite in love with you_. "I find that they make it difficult for one to be practical," he said by way of an answer, a smile in his voice.

"That is exactly what Elinor would say." She thumbed through the _Tragedies_ and found _Hamlet_. She settled down to read for a while, and he did as well. Soon, he found that the air, which had seemed to leave the room when Marianne opened the door, found its way back to Brandon's lungs, and he could breathe rather easily-more easily than ever before, actually. What development was this? He had spent a solid quarter of an hour in comfortable silence with this siren of a woman, and, though he hadn't forgotten she was there, he had been able to concentrate on his reading. He forgot for a while that he wasn't _home_.

"Hmm," she grumbled, coming to a part of the play she found frustrating. She tucked her legs up underneath her endearingly.

"Anything amiss?"

She quoted, "'Doubt thou, the Starres are fire, / Doubt, that the Sunne doth moue: / Doubt Truth to be a Lier, / But neuer Doubt, I loue.'" She paused. "I used to like Hamlet."

"The play, or the character?"

"The character. I thought him tortured, and I felt him wronged by Ophelia."

"Oh? And now?"

"I wonder-he never really truly loved Ophelia, did he?"

Brandon looked at her, his face filled with concern. She met his eyes firmly, unshaken.

"I think not," he answered.

"He said he loved her, but…"

"But that means nothing, does it?"

She shook her head and stared at the fire for a while. "What matters is what you do to prove it," she whispered, as if the awareness of this fact was dawning over her. She shivered again, and suddenly sneezed. Brandon handed her his handkerchief. She dabbed at her nose and offered the fabric back to her. He gestured to her to keep it. They were both quiet for a while, Marianne's eyes trained to the flames, Brandon's openly watching her.

"Miss Marianne," he said, breaking the stillness of the moment. "You are not Ophelia."

She looked at him with brows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You are not Ophelia. You are not a character in a novel or a play. You are real flesh and blood, and you are stronger than you think."

Her eyes filled with unshed tears. "How do you know?"

He replied, "Personal experience."

She digested this for a moment. "Thank you," she said.

Soon after, she rose, his copies of the _Tragedies_ and the Schiller book carried under one arm, and took her polite leave. She left him there, breathless and alone with a desire for her that was palpable, almost like a second person in the room that he could reach out and shake hands with.

Brandon saw her at supper, but she was on the opposite end of the table, and they did not speak. And the following morning, her illness had worsened, and it looked as though she would have to take to bed for several days.


	13. With or Without You

Mood music: "With or Without You," by U2

She was not getting better. Oh, God, she was dying, and he would have to live with this loss, too, and suffer in loneliness for the rest of his days. She must not. She must live. She must.

Colonel Brandon watched Palmer's horse ride off into the distance, felt Mrs. Jennings' reassuring hand pat him on the shoulder, and leaned on the gatepost heavily.

"Come play cards with me, Colonel. I cannot think about what misery our girl is in. She must be in a dreadful state. I fear she will never recover from this blow."

The two of them played several hands, Brandon winning only one, his whole mind and heart dwelling elsewhere. Mrs. Jennings noticed. She was being remarkably kind and gentle with him. It was beyond Brandon's skill at dissembling for him to mislead Mrs. Jennings as to the true nature of his worry and distraction-and she did not torment him about it. The elephant in the room, his love for a woman who was in the throes of a life-threatening illness, remained unacknowledged.

At tea time, Elinor came downstairs, and Mrs. Jennings offered to take her place for a while so that Elinor could sup. Brandon asked urgently after the patient, and Elinor made small comments as to the nature of her illness and its seriousness, but neither of them had any hope that Marianne was materially improved.

Two days passed in this manner. Occasional bouts of card-playing and conversation were interspersed with lengthy periods of time alone, attempting to read or seek other methods of distracting himself from the inevitable outcome of Marianne's illness, whatever that outcome may be. He ate little, slept less, and realized upon catching his reflection in the looking glass in his chamber that he appeared to have aged even beyond his five-and-thirty years. It was at the same moment that he realized that today was his birthday. Six-and-thirty and still thriving, and yet that beautiful fawn of a girl languished in the chamber down the hall, all of her eighteen years about to be snuffed out with none of life's joys for her to experience.

He realized then that he would give anything to have her back to health, knowing that it meant that she would live to marry someone else. He would be happy and smile, should he be invited to her wedding. He would buy her the finest wedding gift he could find, and his heart would break, but he would sit and smile and take it, knowing the alternative was that she would be lost, never able to love or be happy again.

When Elinor, looking haggard and worn, appeared in the parlor the next morning, it was a sense of relief in her face. "We think she is out of danger," she smiled, and took herself to her rooms to sleep a bit. The doctor left by way of the parlor, and Brandon, nervous, questioned him. He corroborated what Elinor had said, and Brandon slumped in his chair, prayed a prayer of silent thanks, and spent the rest of the day trying to make himself as useful as possible. He played at cards, chatted amiably with Elinor as she ate sparing meals, and advised the servants whenever Mrs. Jennings could not leave Marianne's bedside. He felt like a new man, and fell asleep in his favorite chair in Palmer's library, legs outstretched, around six o'clock, sleeping for over two hours in peace.

But when, at just past eight, Elinor knocked and entered the library, he was instantly aroused and could tell from the tone of her knocking, and much more so from the look on her face, that something was amiss. "Colonel-" she choked out, seeing him, and he instantly rose and strode over to her, meeting her in the center of the room and catching her in his arms before she fainted to the floor.

"Oh, God, Miss Dashwood, is she-is she?" He couldn't finish the sentence.

"She has taken a bad turn, Colonel. I don't know how much longer it will be, now," Elinor wept, and Brandon held her tightly, the muscles in his arms aching, his jaw clenching, blinking back his own tears.

"What can I do?" he pleaded, looking down at her.

"There is nothing…" Elinor answered, shaking her head against his chest. "All we can do is wait."

"Oh, God, Miss Dashwood, I-I cannot-"

"I know. I know, Colonel. I am sorry." He didn't know what look had come over his countenance, but it was enough to inspire her pity in addition to her own grief.

"I must now ask Harris to send a messenger to let my mother know," she said when she had time to breathe and gather her thoughts.

"Your mother?"

"Yes, Marianne is asking for her. I don't know how he will get to her in time, and I am worried that-that Marianne will not survive long enough to see her." She took a shaky breath.

Brandon ran his hands through his hair. "I will go."

"What-no, Colonel, that is not what I intended-"

"Your mother deserves to hear of this from a friend, not from a stranger. I'll hire a carriage to the village inn and then ride post to Barton. I can reach her before morning, and have her here by tomorrow afternoon, if she can hold on just a bit longer. We'll use John's carriage." The plan crystallized in his mind.

"To ride through the night?" Elinor started. "That isn't safe."

"Miss Dashwood, I would ride through fire, if I thought-if I thought there was anything I could do to-" he lost his voice for a moment.

She took his hands in hers and held them for a moment. "I thank you. You have been so kind to our family, Colonel, and it seems-it seems," she struggled to finish, her voice breaking, "that we shall never be able to repay you."

"Don't think of it. This is...nothing at all." He walked towards the door. "I shall begin making arrangements at once. Go to your sister and watch over her."

With that, he exited the library, all thoughts forgotten but his task. He arranged with Harris for his horses, and selected the few items he thought he might need on his journey, including his riding clothes, which he promptly changed into. From his window he could see the carriage arriving. He stopped once on his way towards it-outside Marianne's door, where he could not hear her breathing, but where he knew that, for now at least, she still was. Elinor emerged as he stood there, and he pressed her hand in his, whispering, "God protect her," as he took his leave of her.

The carriage ride to the station where he would hire his first post horse was a blur in Brandon's consciousness, as was the first hour, two, riding on the back of the beast he hired. He tried not to push the horse too hard, but the easy gallop they achieved was soothing, in a way-though with every hoofbeat he heard her name, "Marianne, Marianne, Marianne." It was all he thought of. Her name, and his mission, filled his mind. He could not let himself think of her current state, or how it may be devolving, or he would lose his will and give up. He had to get to Mrs. Dashwood.

After some time riding, however, he felt the pain of hours on horseback in his legs, and mostly in his back-and it sharpened steadily. He was not young anymore, and it had been some time since he had ridden even half this length. His next stop for a fresh horse, he allowed himself a mug of ale to try to ease the tension in his shoulders and his lower back, and stretched his legs for a few minutes before mounting again. He must last long enough, must make it. _Marianne needs her mother. Marianne needs me to be successful in this_.

At long, long last, the sun appeared on the horizon, as did the familiar sights of Barton. First, before waking Mrs. Dashwood in her cottage, he knocked-nearly beating down the door-of the mansion house. Kingsley, the footman, answered in shock, and Brandon informed him of what he needed. Before he could bolt away towards the cottage, John appeared in his nightshirt. "Good God, Chris! What is this?"

"I cannot speak long. It is Marianne-She is ill. She needs her mother. I came to request the use of your carriage, and I asked Kingsley to secure it for me."

"Ill? What do you mean?"

"Mrs. Jennings has written to you, but you won't have received the letter yet. I have been riding-"

"You must have been riding all night! Rest, man! I'll send for the carriage. Let Mrs. Dashwood go to Marianne. Rest here."

"John, you-you must know that that is impossible; I must go to her. I must know…"

John sized him up. "After all this, you still-"

"I love her, John. And she is dying. I have to-I have to go."

And with that, he mounted the post horse once more, and took his fastest gallop yet to the cottage, where he tied the reins around the column in front of the house speedily and knocked on the door. His heart hammered in his chest.

He knew he must look a wreck, but he didn't care; when Mrs. Dashwood came to the door behind the servant who stood aghast in the doorframe, she seemed to know something was very wrong. "Oh, God, Colonel Brandon! What has happened?"

"Madame, we have very little time. Your daughter, Marianne-she-" Already, her face began to change in horror. "She is much more ill than we believed. I have been commissioned to take you to her."

"My Marianne-" she broke down. "My sweet girl. My darling girl." She sought about for somewhere to collapse, and sat on the ottoman, her face in her hands, trying to control her breathing. "Where is she? Is she still at Cleveland?" she said into her hands.

"Yes, and we must get you to her at once. I have already gotten leave to use Sir John's carriage to take you. She has asked for you."

"Of course she has. My girl. I must gather a few things-and tell Margaret. Oh, Colonel-"

And she was off, up the tiny stairwell and calling for her maid to help her pack her possessions for travel. The Colonel listened as she bustled about, and heard a knock on Margaret's door. "Margaret, quickly. Get up. You are needed."

Soon Margaret was wailing, and running down the stairs towards the Colonel, and throwing herself into his arms. "You must help her, Colonel," she implored.

"Margaret," he pushed her away at arm's length and looked at her. She must be thirteen now, and she was looking more and more like a young woman. "I cannot pretend that the situation isn't very serious."

"Will she live?"

"I do not know. I hope so."

Margaret paused. "Thank you for being honest with me." Her tears were momentarily stopped. She continued with something approaching poise, "And thank you for coming to tell us."

Soon Brandon and Mrs. Dashwood were packed in the carriage, Margaret subdued, afraid, but in agreement that she would stay as a guest of the Careys, her friends, while waiting for news, which would come to her as quickly as possible.

"Colonel, you look as if you need to sleep. You have not rested all night. Please feel free to sleep," said Mrs. Dashwood, her chin resting on her hand.

"Madam, I thank you. I do not know that I could sleep, but I will try." And try he did, but each time he got close to drifting off, as exhausted as he was, his back twinged and he saw _her_ face, imagined her suffering, and he was awake again with his worry and his sadness. Finally, thinking that Mrs. Dashwood had nodded off herself, he leaned forward and put his head in his hands.

"Colonel, are you quite alright?"

He looked up, surprised to find her watching him. "Yes, ma'am. Just tired. I shall sleep when we are back at Cleveland."

"Colonel, I do not know what I shall do without my daughter."

He could not answer her.

"She is such a beautiful girl-so sweet and gentle, for all her passions. To think I shall never hear her play any more. To think-" she sniffled-"I shall never see her dance or sing, or be able to talk with her. I do not have favourites among my daughters, Colonel, but Marianne's is closest to my own temperament, and I feel this-most strongly. And you-you have been a particular friend to her as well. I am glad you are here to aid us in our time of grief, even if it brings you grief as well. That is perhaps selfish of me."

"No, ma'am. I would not be anywhere else," he said quietly.

"Tell me, was her heart at least at ease when last you saw her, or was she still in mourning over Mr. Willoughby?"

"I cannot presume to know her heart, madam. I know that she must have still felt some anguish over his leaving her for his new wife. But beyond that, I cannot-I dare not venture-" and here, a sob escaped him unbidden, and he looked around wildly, unable to stop the quickening of his breath, the pounding of his heart, the terror in his mind. "She has been walking out in the rain, Mrs. Dashwood, and refusing meals, and sleeping so little! Her body couldn't fight off infection if it tried, now! If only we had been able to coax her out of her sad reverie long enough to see the reality of her life, and how her actions have made us all concerned for her!" he raved.

"You really do share in our sorrow, Colonel, don't you?" she asked, eyeing him curiously through her grief. "Is it possible that you-that you care for her?"

He was silent, and looked out the window. Did she not know? Did it even matter? Nothing mattered. He may as well say what he felt, for once. "I love her, Mrs. Dashwood."

Now it was her turn to be silent. "Do you have an understanding with her?" she asked after a while.

He laughed bitterly. "She would never have me if I asked. And now it doesn't matter."

"How long have you felt thus?"

"Months. From the moment I first heard her play at Barton. What does it matter? My feelings are nothing compared with her pain, and yours."

"She was-we were all so enamored of Willoughby," she said, wonder in her voice. "I think now, if only she had come to marry you, instead, she would never have experienced such heartache."

"Except for the heartache of marrying where she did not love," he countered. "At six-and-thirty, what have I to offer her, or anyone?"

Mrs. Dashwood looked at him thoughtfully for a long while, then joined him in looking out the window of the carriage. They broke for luncheon around one, and sat together in a tavern over meat pies, not talking. Both only picked at their food. Suddenly, however, fortified by a strong mug of wine, Mrs. Dashwood began to eat more heartily. Brandon looked at her with a question.

"She will live, Colonel. She must live. I have decided."

"Madam?"

"I remembered when she was a child-such delicate features, and such perfect curls. Did you know her hair used to be red as fire, and her face covered in freckles? She was a lot like Margaret back then. Once she fell from a ladder in the library at Norland and was made unconscious. The very first thing she did when she woke and was ready to walk again was to climb the very ladder she had fallen from, to get the book she had sought. My daughter is strong. She will not die from this. Whatever she sets her mind to do, she will do."

 _And if she has set her mind to dying?_ he thought to himself.

"I will promise you this, Colonel: if she lives, I will do everything in my power to see that she notices you, and to promote you to her. I believe you will make her happy, more than anyone."

Brandon was himself not convinced. "Let her be. Please say nothing of this to anyone, ma'am, especially her. I do not want her embarrassed by a connexion to me-she surely will not want it."

"Well, at any rate, it will be some time before she recovers. We will need to wait on her to come into herself again." She gave him a small smile. "And then we shall see."

"We shall see," he replied wearily.

When they were on the road again, Mrs. Dashwood's wine-induced confidence began to wear off, and she became once again melancholy. She fell asleep a little, and when she awoke, it was in a state of terror. "Oh, God, Colonel Brandon! I dreamed-I dreamed I had to watch her burial!"

He came over to her bench within the carriage and offered her his shoulder, and she cried for some time there. When she emerged, sniffling into a handkerchief that had her husband's initials on it, she was calmer but no less distraught.

"What was your husband like?" he asked her.

"My husband?"

"Yes."

"He was...well, in some ways, you remind me of him, Colonel. He was very principled, very quiet. He loved me, even though he was sixteen years my elder," she sniffed again into her handkerchief. "And he loved our girls best of anyone. I feel that he always regretted how his son had been raised. John is...well, I hate to speak ill of him, but he is rather spoiled."

"I have met him; I know."

"Have you?"

"Yes."

"Ah. Well, William, that is to say Mr. Dashwood, was… a beautiful person. He loved to read, and shared his books in particular with Marianne and Margaret. Marianne preferred his storybooks and poetry, and Margaret obsessed over his picture books, maps, anything that gave her a window into the outside world. Elinor loved to talk with him of religion and politics. He treated the girls as if they were sons, in some ways, and paid them attention in a way he never could do with John, since John's first wife had insisted he be sent away to school. He saw that they had tutors, and that they were educated and capable of thinking for themselves. Some said we were fools for giving these things to our girls, but…"

"But you made them more independent, able to stand on their own."

"That is what we tried to do-yes."

"I admire their strength, Mrs. Dashwood. I think you both did well by them. Not just Mariane," he added. "I think very highly of all three of your daughters. Elinor is a true leader, and I would have been honored to work with someone like her, or even for someone like her, in any army. And Margaret has the makings of greatness in her as well."

"I wish they had been boys sometimes. How much easier would their lives have gone?"

"That, I cannot say." He grimaced. "We each have our own difficulties, I suppose."

At this moment, they rounded a bend, and Brandon recognized the outskirts of Cleveland Park, pointing out the gates of the property from a distance to Mrs. Dashwood. She stopped speaking and turned white as a ghost. They rode the rest of the way in total silence. Mrs. Dashwood took Brandon's hand in her own, and held it tightly.

At last they pulled up in front of the house. Mrs. Dashwood didn't wait for Brandon to hand her out of the carriage but instead bolted out herself, and into the house, before Brandon could so much as disengage himself from his cushion. He wasn't far behind her, however, and the sight he saw when he entered the foyer was enough to send his heart into raptures. Elinor was embracing her mother, and both wore smiles, tears streaming freely from their eyes.

Brandon leaned back against the wall and said a prayer of thanks. He wanted to kneel, prostrate himself, but he feared he would not be able to get back up again. So he stood there, awkwardly, while the two women wept and chattered. Her fever had broken, and she was awake, and able to speak, and looked for her mother. They would go to her at once.

They left. Brandon was alone.

He engaged a servant to help him empty his and Mrs. Dashwood's belongings from the carriage. Then he made his way to his chambers (stopping outside of Marianne's once more, though he could not go in, and pressing his lips to the door frame), and ordered a bath. For hours, he sat in the tub, allowing the hot water to make his muscles unknot a bit, his head clear a bit. He drank two, three glasses of scotch, and drifted off to sleep. When he woke, he dried off. He didn't bother dressing, but went straight to his bed and collapsed. He slept until noon the next afternoon, and wasn't angry with himself for laziness. He was still exhausted, anyway, but went downstairs, made sure that everyone else was alright (and that Marianne had not relapsed in the night, which she had not). And finally, he spent the next two days shuttled between Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Dashwood playing cards in the parlor, and Rousseau's _Emile_ in the library. Life as usual.


	14. You Can't Always Get What You Want

"You Can't Always Get What You Want," by the Rolling Stones

Within four days of her mother's arrival, Marianne was well enough for company, and Brandon almost spilled tea all over himself when Mrs. Dashwood said, with a knowing look, "Marianne would like to see you, Colonel. She is sitting up in Mrs. Palmer's drawing room."

"Me?"

"Yes. She has a particular thing she would like to discuss with you."

"Oh."

"So come to her. Ladies do not like to be kept waiting," Mrs. Dashwood smirked.

Brandon abandoned his tea, nearly knocking his chair over as he stood. He floated towards the appointed chamber, and when he knocked, _her_ voice called out, "Come in!"

He followed Mrs. Dashwood in, and saw Elinor and Mrs. Jennings already there, engaged in their sewing. At the sight of _her_ (the first sight of her he had had in almost two weeks, since her illness had lasted quite some time) his breath caught in his chest and he thought, _Eliza_. In truth, she looked much stronger and healthier than Eliza had looked when he had found her in the poorhouse, consumptive and broken. But the sunken eyes, the pallor, and the thinness reminded him of his earlier heartache, and he almost lost his confidence.

At last, awareness of the present returned to him. He saw her-beautiful Marianne, _still_ beautiful, _always_ beautiful, her hair arranged around her lovely face, her dress, green, bringing out her shining eyes, and her smile small but present. "Miss Marianne-I am glad you are feeling better."

"Thank you, Colonel Brandon," she replied, and reached out for his hand. He offered it, sitting next to her. Her touch was cool, soft, and he wanted more of it, and he was afraid she knew it. He settled for simply feeling her hand gently resting in his. "Thank you also for delivering my mother to me. She says it was a difficult journey for you."

"It was nothing, Miss Marianne. Please don't mention it."

"I appreciate it, nonetheless."

He smiled and nodded at her. "Did you ask for me for a particular reason?"

"I did-ever since I have felt well enough to read, I have been trying unsuccessfully to make sense of this Schiller book. Do you think you could help me? I don't want to impose, if you've other things to do-"

"No, no. I would love to help you."

"Oh." She smiled. "Good."

Once everyone else saw that they were reading, they seemed to ease their curiosity, and Mrs. Jennings and Mrs. Dashwood exited the room arm in arm, knowingly. Elinor seemed more hesitant to leave, and stayed a while longer finishing her netting, but soon even she grew bored of what turned out to be a lot of Marianne trying desperately to pronounce the German text, and the Colonel correcting her gently, after which she thanked him, and the two of them deliberating over the translation. Elinor left the room with an offer to bring in tea in a while.

And they continued. There was no tension in the room, Marianne seeming perfectly at ease with Brandon, and though it was clear she had no attraction to him, at least she was seeking out his company, and didn't seem to be bored. Once or twice she laughed at herself and her poor pronunciation, once or twice she laughed at something he said or did to help her understand a new bit of vocabulary.

"You ought to have been a tutor. You're very patient. Much more so than I would be," she laughed.

"My patience would only extend this far to pupils who were willing to learn; otherwise it would be utterly lost," he replied. He found that his face ached, that he had been smiling for some time. His muscles were unaccustomed to this.

After a while they had gotten as far as Marianne had energy to read for the morning, and they closed the book. He placed it on the table next to her, for further practice, and made to leave her side and fetch Elinor with the tea. "Colonel Brandon, before everyone else comes back, there is something I should say to you."

He stood in the doorway, waiting, hardly daring to breathe.

"I think-something you said to me. You told me-you told me I wasn't Ophelia."

"Yes."

"I kept thinking of that. Each time I awoke, when I was so ill. I kept thinking that I wasn't Ophelia, and that I dare not drown. So...thank you. For giving me something that helped me to hang on."

Christopher didn't know how to react to this. He simply stood, and looked at her. And she sat, and looked at her hands, and then up at his face. Some of the liveliness had left her countenance-perhaps permanently. The gravity that replaced it added something to her features-a wisdom, a thoughtfulness that hadn't been there before.

She took a deep breath and continued. "I hope I can be a better friend to you, and everyone, now that this is past me. I think I have been very wrapped up in my own woes, and have not been very mindful of others' feelings. And I know that Elinor, and you, and everyone else, have done everything in your power to try to make me feel better, and it's barely even registered with me that, though I lost Mr. Willoughby, I still have so many who care for me. But now I would like to make amends. Will you… forgive me for my selfish behavior, and allow us to be friends?"

"Of course, Miss Marianne," Brandon said. "I have always considered you a friend. I am not likely to stop now." He smiled at her, gently, he hoped fatherly.

She beamed at him. His pulse quickened. He took an inward moment to make sure his legs still worked, and then left the room to get Elinor with tea.

In the months that followed, many things happened. The Dashwood women were once more removed to Barton, Marianne having safely recovered. Some weeks later, Brandon visited Barton, and learned that it was Elinor, and not some other girl, who would benefit from Edward Ferrars' receipt of the living at Delaford, and his heart rejoiced that such a dear friend (for so Elinor was to him) was to be residing so nearby, as his curate's wife! (He knew this meant he might be thrown frequently into company with her sister, but this was no matter, really, was it?) He finally had the opportunity to meet Edward Ferrars, and found him to be the sort of person with whom it would be possible to build a genuine friendship-always more difficult to do the older one becomes. Ferrars stayed in the house at Delaford with him, studying to take orders and overseeing the repairs to the parsonage. Once he had finally been ordained, he set a date with Elinor, and planned to marry her at Delaford at Christmas, the last act of the former curate being to marry them before he retired; Elinor and Brandon would live in the mansion house for a little while yet after their honeymoon, and then finally move into the parsonage within the year. So much joy and happiness.

Brandon also visited Eliza and Charity frequently. He heard Charity's first words, saw her sit up for the first time, and begin to eat new foods, and play games with her toys, in which Raja the tiger was always a featured actor. He held her, rocked her, even changed her and dried her tears, and felt that if this was as close as he would ever get to being a family man, it may be enough, for all the love he felt there. Eliza, for her part, had forgotten Willoughby almost entirely, except for the resemblance he had to her daughter. She frequently told the Colonel that she had no intention of marrying, however, for she was now of the opinion that there was very little Willoughby or any man could provide her that was better than what Charity and Brandon provided so often. She put her motherly duties first, her daughterly daughters second, and the duties to her own heart so far in the background as to be nearly exiled. And for the present, this would have to do.

And as for Brandon's heart-though it had been broken, it had healed. It was not the fragile heart of a young man, after all, but beat strongly and sturdily in a weathered chest. It still yearned for its mate-still, Brandon dreamed of Marianne at night, pale flesh willingly availing itself to him in the firelight of his library, or in the softness of the grass in one of Delaford's meadows, or in the warmth of his bed. Still he thrilled at the thought of sharing his life with her, or even just sharing a room with her for a few minutes to talk about things that mattered to them both. Still she was the woman he loved. But life had interfered, and he would have to put her out of his mind as much as he could, and carry on. For now.

The end.

(Look for the sequel, "Elinor's Wedding," by the end of the week! I promise… there will be smut.)


End file.
